Please Switch Off All Mobile Phones During The Performance
by Garmonbozia
Summary: 'Scandal? A bloody "scandal"? Scandal is entirely the wrong word. That makes it sound like everything just happened. Like Jim Moriarty wasn't slaving day and night to bring all that together. Scandal? What a bloody insult... [A villainous retelling of ASiB]
1. Chapter 1

That's it. I've had it up to _here_ with the 21st _fecking _century. I'm done with it, do you understand? This culture of perpetual, never-ending connection, twenty-four-seven availability, to hell with it. I'm going to an island with no reception.

Here I stand, doing my honest best to play a wonderful finale scene at a _public swimming pool_ of all bloody places – and in case you're interested, I'm finding that particular bathos rather difficult to stomach – here I am about to get blown to bits with my own bomb and my _phone_ rings.

I'm going to an island. I'm going to an island with no reception and then I'm going to make a little raft out of a coconut and send my mobile away from me on the tide so it'll drown and become nothing more than a distracting alien artefact for a very confused angler fish.

Could have _sworn_ I put the bloody thing on silent...

But let's accentuate the positive – at least I remembered to change my ringtone already. He doesn't appreciate it, yet. If he wasn't looking at me down the length of a gun, he'd probably be laughing. I wouldn't mind if he did. So long as he remembers it. And later, when it all makes sense, when it's real and true and all put out in front of him, he'll get it.

Stayin' alive. That's me and you, my old mucker, for tonight at least.

Someday you'll know what I mean by that.

But my phone's still ringing and anyway, the moment between us is pretty much shattered. Shattered, and the pieces cast about the ground and stamped on until they are but a fine crystalline powder. So what's the harm? Who knows; maybe it'll be something interesting. And maybe hell will freeze and pigs will fly in formation over it shoot red, white and blue smoke out of their arses, because everything interesting in the world, until just a second ago, was happening at the side of a public swimming pool. Very likely I'll end up having whoever's on the other end of the line killed. And the moment is gone, so what's the harm?

"Do you mind if I get that?"

The good doctor gets a look on his face like he's going to leap upon me and murder me with his bare hands, just as soon as he figures out what the hell is going on. Bless his heart. It's these everyman types, you know, these pedestrian sorts. He just doesn't understand. And nobody will ever be able to explain it to him.

Holmes, though, Holmes understands the absurdity of the moment. Gestures with the gun, "Oh no, _please_." Then adds, with what I assume to be the public-schoolboy equivalent to menace, "You've got the rest of your life."

I find that very aggravating. Not the threat, you understand. I'm used to threats. I don't mind threats, and especially not from him. And it's a _good_ threat too. That's what's aggravating. He's really not pulling it off.

Whoever's on this phone doesn't know yet that they are being slowly tortured to death. There's some little comfort in that.

"Hello?"

"Is that Jim Moriarty?" _No_, love, you just called that man's number and were mysteriously patched through to another irritated-sounding Irishman. He's a sheep farmer, living in New Zealand, his name's Kevin, lovely fella…

But this idiot question comes in a cultured, self-possessed voice. A woman's voice, which through tone and timbre and not a single one of her stupid words tells of intelligence, of breeding, of a sound business mind. So I don't hang up, right away.

"Yes, of _course_ it is; what do you want?" Holmes is glaring. I wish he wouldn't. I did _ask_, after all, if he minded, and now he's going to stand there glaring at me down his bloody useless little gun, making me feel rude, like a prick, like one of those wankers that tries to have a full-blown conversation on the Tube when they _know_ the reception's going to be patchy and… _Sorry_, I mouth over.

_Fine_, he hisses back. He doesn't mean it.

This isn't really how I had envisioned our first real denouement. I've let him down, now that I'm thinking about it. Let us both down. But the voice on the line is still talking, and I have to listen. It helps, very slightly, to turn away from Holmes. And she's going on, and on, this posh bint, whoever she is, all the pussy-footing and the double-talk that people seem to believe is so essential and then, finally, she comes to the point. That key point they always have. It's the sentence they blurt out when I get sick of listening to them and myself or an associate swiftly produces a knife to place to their throat. It's the line she really should have opened with.

It goes straight to my heart. Before I've even thought or understood the implications, "_Say that again_! Say that again and know that if you're lying, I will find you, and I will _skin_ you."

I don't know what Holmes and Pawn Johnny are doing anymore. Very likely they're hardly reacting at all, and only waiting to see if there's an opportunity for them in this. An opportunity.

Oh yes. Opportunity is definitely the word of the moment. An opportunity. A golden, glorious opportunity.

That voice on the line, that woman who just took out a golden key and opened out the pearly gates of heaven to piss down light on me, and Holmes, and all the undeserving little lice that get between, she is calmly obedient, and repeats, "I can give you their hearts."

She doesn't need to explain. Questions like 'who?' are not for people like me to ask. To have gotten this far, to have even gotten my number, she knows who. And it's that word 'their', that plural, that makes her so wonderfully important.

Out of a moment gone to shite, roses are suddenly blooming.

She tries to go on then. "Wait," and I put her on hold. She requires my full attention now. Demands it. And I no longer need this paltry excuse for a parlour scene. I'll see dear old Lanky-legs there again, and soon, and it'll be much, _much_ more fun than this.

He doesn't mind me taking these first few steps forward. Watson does. We're looking at murder again, I think. Me, getting barrelled into the pool, stranglehold, all very dramatic. And my mobile full of chlorinated water with that woman on the far end suddenly unreachable. He better not even try it. I'm hoping if he starts to get up, Moran'll do something about it. Anyway, I step forward too close to that lovingly crafted Semtex waistcoat and Holmes readjusts his grip on his weapon. Nothing happens. Really he should be shot, coming that close to pulling the trigger. Don't get me wrong, I'm _glad_ he's not dead, but it means Moran is hesitating, is off his game. I've put him off too, it seems.

That bloody bomb… People don't understand the work that goes into that. Not to mention the expense. And all the hassle of kidnapping Watson, getting him fitted up. I won't say it wasn't a laugh, one for the Christmas video, but… looking down at it now, it just seems like such a waste. I'm not sure if it's Holmes I'm talking to, or that poor, sad-looking empty jacket; "Sorry… Wrong day to die."

"Get a better offer, did you?"

No, Sherlock, darling, love, sweetie, angel-drawers, we're not doing the 'absurd moment' bit anymore. We've moved on now. I'm trying to be genuine with you. Show a little bloody appreciation. You're looking at the only other person on earth who could ever feasibly treat you like an equal. Show a little _fecking_ appreciation, s'il vous plait.

"You'll be hearing from me, Sherlock." Because if he's not going to be civil, I'm not going to be civil. Even when I turn my back again, he doesn't lower the gun. It's very clear that I'm leaving this time, and he still feels the need to see me out of the room. That's offensive, isn't it? I'm not the only one alive who would find that offensive? Wouldn't you be offended? I'm trusting him not to use it and all he can do is stand there like he's considering it anyway.

It makes me a little vicious, I'm afraid, with my new and most valuable contact. As I take her off hold, I'm overcome with a burning need to make sure she knows _exactly_ where we both stand. "If you have what you say you have, I will make you rich. If you don't, I'll make you into shoes."

Pushing through the door, I snap my fingers. Not just so Moran will know to bail out for real this time, but to break the spell. To make him lower that bloody gun. To make Watson get up from worming around on the floor like a scared child. And, if I'm totally honest, to switch myself off too. Take the adrenaline down a notch, slow the heartbeat. Get ready, not to die or to be matched, but to do business.

"I wouldn't have called you," she says, "Unless I was sure." She says that with distaste. Threats, it seems, don't wash over her as they do me. She's not offended, not angry… she's disappointed in me, that I'm so weak as to have to make _threats_. I like it. It's brutal, but I like it. "It's what you want, isn't it? _Both_ the Holmes brothers, totally, absolutely. Their still-beating hearts."

"Now how would you know that?"

"Isn't that what you want?"

"It is," I admit to her, candidly. "It is very much what I want. You wouldn't play around with what I want, would you?"

"No."

"That would be unwise." I say it lightly, as though teasing.

And she, teasing right back, "Oh, I'm sure." She's laughing. Not so you'd know it, not so it becomes a problem between us, but just a little edge on her voice, laughing at me asserting myself, my silly little alpha-status play.

I don't mean for there to be a pause. Somehow one manages to happen.

She breaks it, "This is where you tell me to name my price, Mr Moriarty."

Ah, now, that's a bit much, dear. A man could get annoyed, being spoken to like that. "Is it now… Extortionate, I'll bet."

"Not at all. The country will pay me what I'm owed."

Oh, there are so many questions there. You could go blind with all the questions on that one. Talk about your loaded statements. But it's unprofessional to just fire a barrage at her, so I pick the most prurient, the one which applies to me, the only one that really matters, "Then what exactly do you want from me?"

"Expertise. You help me get what I want out of dear old Britannia, and in the process, you get your own hearts desire." That's 'hearts'. A simple plural. No possessive apostrophe. My hearts, desired. How very clever, how very classy. Elegant.

"What do I call you?"

With triumph, and relief; "Adler. Irene Adler. Where can I find you?"

"Don't be so forward. I'll find you, Ms Adler."

And with this, I am breaking into night air. I use the sound of the door and the change of atmosphere to hang up on her with a little style, a little grace. Moran is already waiting with the cab. I jump in the back, sit on the seat behind the empty passenger, so we can talk and I still look like a fare.

"What happened there?" is how he greets me, and with such utter incomprehension you'd think I'd sprouted wings and a tail in there and flown out via a fiery portal.

"You heard the detective," I tell him. "Better offer."

And as much as my heart breaks, for dragging my dear aforementioned detective all the way out to this arbitrary place and then denying him the satisfaction of a proper climax, like the _worst_ kind of pricktease, I settle a little, there in the cab. It doesn't sting so much. Because I know, when we meet again, when it all comes together all over again, it'll be ten times better. Neither of us will be walking away next time. This, tonight, let's just call this a dress rehearsal.

A better offer? Sherlock, you great daft sod you, you have no idea…

* * *

[For HayleyC. I was too much of a coward to PM and thank Hayley properly, after my little hiatus. This is the best I can do]

I always felt like Belgravia would be the most interesting episode to write the 'other side' of - the Moriarty angle. I wrote this as a one-shot but I could see it continuing, maybe. I don't deserve it, after all this time, but if anybody has any thoughts or feelings, feel free as ever to let me know.

Hearts,

Sal.


	2. Chapter 2

Moran comes up with me to the flat. If you have a stiff drink, or five, with a guest, you're being sociable. If you're doing it alone you're admitting something's gone wrong and it's shaken you and that's not what's happened here at all, so I'm not admitting it. I'm having a sociable drink with a friend.

The fact that neither of us speaks between the cab and the kitchen, and between the kitchen and the living room, well, that's just testimony to the depth of a friendship, isn't it? If you're comfortable with somebody, you can do things wordlessly. It doesn't mean I'm thinking too hard and he's probably in some kind of shock.

He was a soldier, y'know? When you give him a plan, a set of orders, and you don't stick to it, he gets confused. Moran needs this drink as much as me.

Not that I _need_ it. 'Need' was the wrong word. 'Need' would be another admission, and I told you, I've got nothing to admit.

But the upshot is, we haven't made much noise, and neither of us has turned a light on either. So when I go to sit down on the sofa the sofa wakes up and yelps, and sends me swearing half a foot into the air. It breaks the mood somewhat. Snaps Moran out of it, anyway, which can only be a good thing.

That's another way to tell I like the fella; I'm having a minor fecking heart attack and I can still think of him.

Anyway, down in the dark, as I stagger over to turn the lamp on, the sofa gets up and stretches, yawning. "What's happening? What's going on?" it mumbles. "Did we win?" I switch on lights and there's a blinded second, everybody shielding their eyes. Naturally, seeing I'm still in a state of unnatural wariness, mine at the first to open again. The voice of the sofa has been, in this scene, provided by one Danielle Mies. She's another associate of mine. Another friend too, I don't mind saying. You probably know her and if you don't you'll probably get to. Not calling her a slag or anything but… Yeah, I'm calling her a slag. Friends, see? Friends can call each other names, so long as it's honest. I'm still not used to sitting on her face in darkened rooms, though.

I could stop and rephrase that, but there's no good way to put it. I'll move on, then, to the more prurient point - I used her earlier this evening to get hold of Doctor John and, thereafter, completely forgot about her.

She, however, hasn't forgotten that incident at all. Before I can answer any other question; "And one way or another do we still have Watson? Because I've been lying here thinking about it, and I wouldn't mind a go on him, and I think I could engineer it if we still have him-"

Rubbing her eyes, she curls up at one end of the sofa, generously making room for me, who owns it, at the other end. I sit down before I really think about it. Then I can't help shifting, "You've been lying here thinking how you'd like a go on Watson, Danielle?"

"Just thinking, love. What's the matter? You're neither ecstatic nor in an uncontrollable rage. Those are the only two outcomes I was properly prepared for." Looking back and forth between me and Sebastian, and the two whiskey glasses, "Stunned silence never made the top ten."

Her gaze reminds me that, oh yeah, I have a drink in my hand. I gulp at it like a man who needs it would. Me drinking reminds Sebastian to do the same thing. More than likely we look a bit ridiculous, triggering each other like monkeys, like actors who've forgotten the lines. But Danielle is right; this isn't how we'd pictured this evening. She says two outcomes, but there's a third, which is where Sebastian came back without me. She just didn't want to mention that.

But that's still only three options and this is still none of them. Not to sound like a broken record, but this isn't how any of us pictured this night ending.

Not a one of us knows what to do with that, how to process that. But the one who missed all the trauma, who slept through it, knows enough to get up and go to the kitchen and this time to come back with the whole whiskey bottle as well as a third glass. I knock back the first and start into the second. Then I try, softly at first, "Sebastian." Nothing. He's staring ahead of himself, with a look of stale, glassy confusion on his face. He's not even thinking anymore. "Seb. Sebastian. _Moran_!" and he jumps that time. Looks for an awful moment like he's about to bark something, address me as 'sir', stand to attention. It wouldn't be the first time. It wouldn't even be the tenth time. That's why it's not even funny anymore.

But he holds off, shaking the daze out of his head, "What?"

"Go home and get over it. I have to think this over and your face is putting me off."

I can be as insulting as I like; I'm saying it in the tone of an order. Like a child or an animal, he reacts more to tone of voice than the words themselves. He's on his feet and all before it even crosses his mind to question me; "You still haven't told me what actually went on-"

"Oh right," Dani fills in, and looking suddenly much happier, "So I'm not the only one."

"Look," I say, and point at Moran, "_You_ saw it. And when your big moony eyes are out of the way, Colonel, I'm going to tell this one here the rest of it. And you'll both have half the story, and in the morning you'll get together, like long-lost twins, with two halves of a locket, and you'll put it all together, and talk about me behind my back. And then you'll bring me breakfast and an accurate but kind summary of Watson's inevitable blog entry, telling me I come across very well indeed. This is the new plan. Does anybody have any questions?"

"So does that mean we don't still have-?"

"You're not getting a shag tonight, Dani, no. Doctors and Nurses some other time."

Sulkily, "He'll recognize me now…"

"Oh, for fuck's sake! Any _sensible_ questions, I meant!" Probably a bit louder than I should have been there. Probably there was a bit much rage and anger and other emotional shite in that. I didn't feel that coming, if I'm honest. And they both go very quiet. Moran finishes his drink. His hand, when he puts the glass down, pats my shoulder once on his way out. Nothing else moves until the door closes behind him. Even then, the movement is smooth and unobtrusive. Danielle gets up and moves around behind me. She slips just the tips of her fingers under the collar of my jacket, helping me out of it. She folds it carefully back on itself, places it over the back of Moran's empty chair.

Before we all left tonight, she was sitting on the arm of that chair with that jacket over her knee and a lint roller. I never asked her to. I undo my tie and pass that over to her too. Then she sits back down and pours two more measures for us, smaller this time. And then she just waits.

"You're not even disappointed," I tell her. "Everything that went into this… Whatever you know or don't, you can tell it didn't come off, and you're not even disappointed."

She shakes her head, the bitch. "Nope. I _am_ quite glad you made it back, if that counts for anything."

"It doesn't."

She should shout at me. She should throw the contents of her glass over me and storm out. Actually, knowing her, more likely she'd smash the glass itself around my head and storm out. She does none of these interesting proactive things that I deserve and, given all the sick twists of this evening, might actually find some small pleasure in. Might wake me up, getting a crystal tumbler wrapped round my face. But _no_, my own closest compatriots are too thick to notice that, to do any more than Moran leaving when he's told or Danielle just sitting there, studying her fingernails. She _wants_ to claw my eyes out with them and I'm willing her on and on and on to it, but she doesn't.

"So it didn't come off, then," is how she breaks the silence. "Can you give me a quick version that won't put you to too much pain?"

"Better offer."

Why can't I get that out of my head? 'Better offer'. And not just the words themselves, but him saying it, echoing like the inside of my skull won't let it out. 'A better offer'. It sounded like such a good thing. For all the awful fecking disappointment, 'better offer', I was feeling 'better' with my new 'better offer'. I don't anymore. People with 'better offer's don't generally start shouting and making pissy little pricks of themselves with their mates. At least, not in my experience.

But before she can ask any more questions, bring down anything else unexpected, I ask what I kept her here for. "Does the name Irene Adler mean anything to you?"

Yes. It shocks her. In a way that makes her smile in spite of herself, looking mildly _impressed_ in a way that makes _me_ feel mildly ill… "And _what_ would you want with her?"

Oh, God, this has something to do with sex, doesn't it? And that look on her face, I'm never going to hear the end of this. Oh God… "Nothing. Never mind."

"No. No-no-no-no-no. No, you can't say 'better offer' and 'Irene Adler', in almost the same breath, and expect to get away with it. No. I don't care what you've been through tonight, I need the rest of this tale." I look round. She tries to straighten her face. Then breaks down laughing. I start to get up. "Oh, come on! Look at me; I'm taking this very, very seriously." Her face is alight with the effort to stop smirking. It's awfully tempting to get up and turn off the lamp, just to see if she's really that bright. "What do you need with Adler?"

"I need you to set something up."

"_James_…" she says, starting to grin again. Can't help herself, the mental case. "With bombmakers and art forgers, yes, I will set you up. With Fat Duck reservations and the very best tailors, yes, but-"

Too low, too tired for this shite, "What?"

Danielle pulls the laptop out from under the coffee table and brings up a website. The first image, a riding crop between impossibly perfect teeth, between impossibly red, glossy lips, impossibly white skin; that voice I heard on the phone. It matches.

"She's a dominatrix." Then, casually explanatory, "It's a sex thing."

"Yes, I know what a dominatrix is, thank you."

Suddenly the whole thing starts to smell distinctly of Miss Whiplash. And a Miss Whiplash can't give me the hearts of both Holmeses, like she promised. How could she believe I never thought of that, in all this time? Thought of it a million times and dismissed it, and come back to it in dark, desperate moments when nothing would come together and still dismissed it then. It just doesn't work with them. Emotional access, I always concluded, really wasn't the way to go.

I get this awful, cold clutching feeling in my stomach, that I could have made a mistake. Should have ignored her. Should have hung up on her. Should have just had Moran shoot Holmes Junior while we had him, cut the losses, give up on building a worthy scene around it and just get him bumped off fast. Should have thrown my phone in the pool. Should never have had it with me. Should have had it on silent. Should have turned it off.

Just look at that; look how many different factors had to conspire for me to get that phone call. Get that… _offer_, certainly. We'll hold off on _better_ for now. We'll hold that one in reserve.

And if it stays in reserve, and I have no reason to bring it out and reattach it to the word 'offer', I'm going to make that threat about the shoes look like a complimentary season pass to the very heights of heaven, the things that'll be done to her. I've never had a dominatrix crushed before. I imagine there'll be some _hilarious_ ironies in that to sooth my wounded soul. And I will be wounded, if it comes to that.

But I've come this far. Spilt milk and all that. And the thing about spilt milk is, once it's on the floor, at least you don't have to put any out for the cat. And the cat'll do the cleaning. Accentuate the positive, and all that.

"Jim, you're staring at a dom's promotional pictures with your murder face on," Danielle says, quietly disturbed. "Comfort me."

"Find her. Be discreet. I need a meeting – no jokes please."

She closes the laptop. "Any other terms?"

I shake my head. "Any terms except hers."

I want her off balance. I want her rocking on her six inch heels and in need of a different kind of cane. Every advantage she might be counting on, every move she might be planning, I want it all shut down, power out, irrevocably _gone_ from her. Just to teach her a lesson about calling people in the middle of the night and their defining moments. I want her to think twice about the way she deals with me, to question everything she does, to be paranoid every moment of her waking life that she's made some petty mistake and I am, at that moment, coming for her like something sent from hell, cold-hearted, single-minded, red in tooth and claw.

"Go home, Dani. We'll talk tomorrow."

"No," she says. As plain, as easy, as if I just asked her if the weather was to be nice tomorrow. In the same way, she says, "I'll be in the spare room." Before I can get over the way she's talking to me and just turf her out on her ear, she's on her feet and on her way down the hall. The only thing she stops for is to spin the cap back onto the bottle, and she takes that along with her. Away from me. Like I can't be trusted.

For a while, I contemplate waiting until she falls asleep and then smothering her; a gentle, _kind_ retribution, in light of such insubordination. But by the time I've finished the drink on the coffee table the thought's gone off me. More than likely I'll just go to bed. Less than likely I'll get any sleep. One way or another, that wasn't the plan for tonight.


	3. Chapter 3

Insomnia has never been a problem for me before. I mean, I've had it, yeah. But it's never been a problem. Nine times in ten I'd be awake thinking of something which had happened and gone very well, or something that was coming and was bound to go very well, how I could make it go well. And for the tenth night, God made alcohol.

You're starting to see, maybe, how it came to be a problem this time.

The last thing I remember seeing on the clock is five-thirty. I know nothing kicked off last night until midnight, but that's still not good. And I wake with the usual alarm at eight only to hear Danielle talking to the cat, that sweet, false voice people do when they're talking to something that can't talk back, whether animals or infants or a slowly crashing computer. She's giving MacLeod her reasons and justifications for feeding him bacon and treats for breakfast. "Got a bit of a scare last night, didn't you, love? You thought you were going to have to come and live with Aunty Danielle, didn't you?" _Aunty_… What _is_ that? Why do people _do_ that? So I shut off the alarm, pull the duvet over my head and roll over.

And the next time I wake the clock says twelve and the phone is ringing. Not my mobile, handily located by the bed where it would be alright, but the landline, out on the desk, where it's a major bloody issue. It's too cold. And the sun's too bright. Fecking sun, it's got no respect, y'know…

…Rational, objective analysis? The farther away we get from me actually having Sherlock Holmes within casual strangling distance, the worse my mood gets.

That's the rational, objective analysis. I'm aware of that. But my heart's not in it, frankly. I'm happy enough bitching about the sun, thanks. All the work, these last few weeks, I'm due a holiday. Should that holiday happen to be to the depths of despair, the darkest pit of hell, well, why not? It makes a change from that little taverna Moran keeps on Skopelos.

Phone's still ringing. Whoever it is, they're not giving up.

So I shuffle up to my feet, staying comfortably and cosily inside the duvet, and make my penguinish way out to the phone. It's alright; there's nobody here to see. Well, almost nobody.

Cats have this way of looking at you, reserved only for their owners, the meaning of which, plain and loud as any West Ham fan can sing it, is "You fucking _wanker_…"

"Fuck off," I tell him back. "You'd see well worse at Aunty Danielle's." Jesus, they've got me doing it now. That's not to be held against me; I haven't actually wakened yet. I'm holding off on that until I know it's important.

Fecking phone's fecking still fecking ringing, I wish phones would stop doing that, and they'd invent a phone that doesn't ring and I'd just sit and look at it all day and live in perfect peace and, "Hello?"

"_Get up._ Get the fuck up, you sad, _lonely_, mopingold bastard!"

Moran. I get by, don't you know, with a little help from my friends. "…Wait a minute, 'old'? But we talked about this; you got over your little death wish phase."

"_And_ he's back in the room," he says, the way a hypnotist would. There's a pause, and if he's waiting for applause he can bloody well wait. We are not amused. "You're awake and making threats," he says. "That's how I know you're alive."

"Well, somebody woke up feeling better."

"You'll engineer it so I still get to shoot somebody, won't you? So I get to do more than just terrify people from a distance and drive the cab?"

And folk call me a psychopath… "It's too soon to make promises. But yes, if I possibly can, certainly I will give you that opportunity." Of course I will. Nobody would get it except him. This job, this opportunity in particular, I wouldn't use anybody else. I could call any of a hundred men down to hold the gun, but that's not what this is about.

"Then you are a gentleman and I ask no more of you. Morning reports?"

Yes. And quickly; computer clock says 11:58, and I hate afternoon reports. Anyway, there's not much to tell. He updates me from Reuters if anything of ours is making the news. Says nobody reported a break in at a local leisure centre. Doctor Watson is taking some time to lick his non-wounds, the child, hasn't said a word yet. "Stop, stop. Sebastian, you're telling me about a lot of things that _haven't_ happened. What about the stuff that actually _did_? Where are we on Adler?"

"Dani's got a lock on her. She's working on it."

"That was quick."

"It wasn't difficult; the woman's got Twitter." That worries me, a little; that implies we're using Adler's own itinerary to arrange a meeting and didn't I say, explicitly, _any terms but hers_? Didn't I say that at a time when nobody could have doubted that I meant it, most heartily? Moran senses my hesitation. "Call Danielle if you're worried. But she seemed pretty sure of herself. She was the one told me to make sure you were up and about. I was on your side. I was the one saying, 'Jim, he'll have been up with the sun, that lad, like ever, little hitch isn't going to send him burrowing into bed' but…"

"_Excuse me_, but which of us was it hit the curb no less than four times driving back here last night? Which of us could do naught but stare and be distracting?"

"...She _also_ said," and he's gone all terse and sulky with me now because I'm reminding him of a moment of vulnerability he once had and didn't cover up too well, "that she left you breakfast in the microwave if there's anything of it you can salvage at midday." Aw. I must say, it never fails to cheer me up, listening as the single hardest bastard I know, a man who's definition of gentility is getting him somebody to shoot, gradually turn into a stung, pissy queen. That warms my heart. Gives me a bit more enthusiasm for this day.

I know I've already come to this conclusion before, but this time I'm going to make it stick; I'm in this now. For better or worse, this is how things are. Accentuate the positive. Take it as it comes. Spilt milk. I'm doing the platitudes again. Watch yourself. The platitudes, of late, have been preludes to psychotic breaks…

That's the rational, objective analysis. As before, I am only dimly aware of that. Mostly I just keep thinking, go with the flow. Water off a duck's back. When life gives you lemons, rip the hearts out of your oldest enemy and your most worthy one in one go, and fill the bleeding gaps with lemons before they're dead so that it stings. That last one doesn't go like that, I know, but you have to work with what you're given.

For instance, the bacon is _well_ salvageable. And between two slices of toast and with copious brown sauce, makes an unparalleled sandwich.

See? Good mood. Don't touch it; it's very delicate, like a cobweb, liable to blow away at the first breath of bad news, so don't touch it.

Danielle gave me an hour to get it together. Then sent me an address and said if I was quick we'd have time for a coffee. The street name was familiar, but I couldn't place it until I got here. This is a little café, much like any other quiet, unpretentious sort of place, but right across the street there's a bank-like building with white columns and a large greenhouse attached to the side. Or 'Covent Garden', as Londoners are fond of calling it. I don't think of it as Bow Street, it's just 'the opera'. I'm losing my working class roots, aren't I? And how can I be thinking of that when I'm supposed to be getting ready for a client meeting? And a really, really important client too.

Danielle's waiting with a hot black coffee for me. That ought to do something to steady me, shouldn't it?

Why am I having to ask? All these questions, all this self-doubt. A lesser man than me would be getting _scared_ of himself by now. And _for_ himself…

"How are we feeling?" is how she greets me.

Me, in a moment of unprecendent honesty, "Not… _stable_." Unprecedented and, if I'm honest, ill-considered.

"All back to normal, then."

"Dani, please…"

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No."

"Then what's the problem?" There's no dwelling on it; she made a mistake and moves right on. "Anyway, you're going to be on the right side of the line when I tell you what I've gotten you."

"Promise?"

"Mm-hm. Not only have I located your mysterious Deep Throat-" She is referencing Watergate. Nonetheless, this is still a thing she says far too loudly and in far too public a place. "-But I've found you the means to take her entirely by surprise in a most psychologically penetrating way."

I could ask her if she thinks that sort of talk, all the innuendo and veiled gags, is helping, but she wouldn't have a clue what I'm on about; she just talks like that.

Is a veiled gag a thing with a dominatrix? It _sounds_ right.

"Go on then. Impress me."

"She's across the road."

"What, in the opera house?"

Danielle nods. She's eating a muffin the size of my fist, and addresses most of what she has to say to the crater of oozing blueberry she is painstakingly excavating. This from a girl who, I can attest, can shin five floors of drainpipe in three minutes. Something's wrong; she's comfort-eating. But I say nothing straight away, allowing her to continue, "She takes singing lessons. Purely for pleasure, no career ambition, just a passionate opera fan with a beautiful voice. It is her refuge, and it is her secret. Nobody's supposed to know about it. You can ambush her in the corridor beyond the practice room, right when she feels like she's safe. Your terms, yes?"

"You got all this just this morning?"

Eating a fragment of blueberry out from under her fingernail, "Told you I could cheer you up."

"So where's this practice room? Take me over there."

"No," she says. That's the second time she's done that. Like I was giving her a choice in the matter. "I'll draw you a map from the door direct to where you need to be. We have time."

But this time will not be like last night; I'm not tired and stunned this time. I'm not standing for it this time. "When do you think we developed one of those relationships where you get to say 'no'?"

"…Round about the Suffrage movement?"

"Take me over there." And this time I say it in such a way she knows better than to argue. I don't know what's gotten into her lately. Between the backchat and the calories, woman needs to catch herself on. That's two ways she could do herself out of a job right there. Danielle Mies is a _thief_; the day she doesn't fit through the air conditioning ducts is the day her career ends. She stands, sighing like a teenager so I'll know she's not happy about this, putting her handbag straight on her shoulder so I'll know I'm leaving the tip, and she taps her foot while she's waiting so I'll know, again, that she's not happy about this. "What's the matter with you?"

"Nothing. Let's go."

"I thought we had time?"

She pretends she didn't hear that and leads off. Doesn't say another word until we're at the top of an unassuming back stairwell. Even then, it's just, "Down there, on the left. You'll hear her." And then she turns, like that's it, job done, and she starts down the stairs again. And when I ask where she thinks she's going, she says I don't need her, like that's her call to make. And when I ask her again what's the matter she says, "Because I can hear her already."

So can I, now that I'm listening. The sound of Danielle's heels fading down the stairs makes it difficult to discern straight away, so I walk out off the landing and start following the corridor, chasing the voice. Like the voice on the phone, like the oblique photographs on her website, it matches. Elegant. Something to it that speaks of a natural, untempered pleasure.

Singing Desdemona's Ave from _Otello_. Danielle should have stayed. She likes a bit of Verdi, does Danielle. There's a whole long story behind it, but me and her saw the first act of it once. Then we got fired at by an American mercenary and had to miss the rest of the show. Never heard the Ave. Dani should have stayed.

I wait, undisturbed by any living creature, for the end of the lesson, happily just listening. In fact, I almost forget myself.

There's a moment. I'll try my best to describe it so that you'll understand. It occurs just as she opens the door and sees me standing there. Casual, leaning on the wall. It's probably clear from my expression that I've been standing contentedly for the last ten minutes or so. She is, undoubtedly, the woman from the pictures. A little different, though, today. The long black hair is only loosely tied, hanging straight down her back, and she's dressed for comfort rather than to make an impression. And in that moment, she looks so stunned, so caught. Exactly what I was after, if you take the rational, objective approach to it.

But in that moment there's a dim old friend of a feeling that flares bright for just that moment, and I think it's what I used to call shame, back when such a thing was possible.

Needless to say, a moment is just a moment. It disappears quick enough. I put that awful feeling away. And both of us shake off the silly excess of the moment and readjust ourselves, become what we want to be for what's to follow. "So," I begin, and the second I open my mouth she knows who I am (bloody accent's more trouble than it's worth), "I _believe_ I'm here to be propositioned?"


	4. Chapter 4

We end up back in that same little café. This, as it turns out, was a really good call on my part. Whatever this woman has she's not comfortable flashing it about in public. Not only is it an improvement on my first coffee companion of the morning, but it's keeping her on her guard. And the mild, puzzled jealousy of the waiter, given I've shown up with two dark, haughty intelligenzia in the last hour, she takes for suspicion, for somebody knowing more than he should, and this too works in my favour.

What can I say? Hauling myself out of bed entirely unaided was a sterling idea. This is clearly a much better, brighter day than it has any right to be. There's a whole new game to be completely on top of.

"Well," she breathes, brittle and cool and not knowing where to put herself, "When you said you'd _find_ me, you weren't lying."

"Contrary to popular belief, I never do. Unless it's entirely necessary, or it's the point, or I just plain don't like somebody. You will never know if one of those things is happening until you're in prison or about to die, so I wouldn't worry about it. The fact is, Miss Adler, you're not looking at somebody who needs a lot of time to get the measure of an offer. Or of the person making it. You don't need the details but suffice to say I walked away from something _sizeable_ last night, in favour of what you say you have-"

"I do have it."

She interrupted me. It's not that I have a script or anything, not that I've practiced this, but I like to let people know where we all stand, right off the mark. Unless it's entirely necessary or it's the point or… You get the picture. What I'm saying is, I was laying the groundwork for a successful professional association and she interrupted me.

And now that I have been interrupted, she takes the interruption of hers and turns it into a little introduction of her own. How quaint. What a sweet effort. She leans in, just a little, just enough for me to be painfully aware that she's closer to me, and continues, "It's really not flattering, to think you might honestly believe I could lie to you. Or that I could be so naïve as to think I have more than I do. The _fact_," she says, echoing me. It _sounds_ like sarcasm, but then she's trying to convince me she's not suicidal, so she wouldn't be being sarcastic with me. Must be some antiquated rhetoric trick that just _sounds_ suspiciously like sarcasm. "The _fact is_, Mr Moriarty, if I didn't think I could help you, I wouldn't be asking you to help me."

She's not calm, or comfortable, or at her ease, and yet she still manages to speak to me with absolute composure. Sitting with the posture of a prima donna in her spotlight, her greatest aria. Like Desdemona; grace even as the jaws of death close around her. There are only two ways a thinking man can respond to that; to be intimidated, as I'm sure so many might and love to be. Or to respect it, immediately, instinctively, totally.

"Well, that's the crux of things, isn't it?" I tell her. "What do you want from me?"

But the trick is never to respect somebody so totally that you don't notice the facts. For instance, she has a black patent handbag with her large enough to comfortably carry a human head down a city street. And yet her phone is in her pocket, ruining the line of her trousers. And please, don't think I've gone all Gok; if I've noticed she's ruining the line then she's very aware of that herself.

Naturally, however, negotiations come first; "No more nor less," she says, "than I already asked; only your expertise. You've been playing Mycroft Holmes for years, and he's never gotten you-"

"How do you know all this?"

"-I only need to get away with it once."

"Don't skip questions with me. That won't end well for you."

"I know one of his aides. Well, I know what he likes." She's lying. Not all of it. Most of it is absolutely true. She has garnered inside knowledge by means of sex and sexualized confession, yes, that part would seem to be true. But I can't shake the feeling that there's some sort of lie in what she just said. Then she blows that from my mind absolutely and forever with the edge of a smile and the words, "I'm told you're all he talks about."

It's not really an ego trip if you're fully aware of the effect it's having on you, is it?

"I'm told too," Adler goes on, "that you've never really gotten him either, have you?" Oh, yeah, I get him all the time. I only went after his little brother as a bonus, easter egg, multiplier, hidden level, only ever did that for shits and giggles. How was I to know what the 'ridiculous boy' (Mycroft's words, by the way, not mine) would turn out to be? She's poking dangerously close to open wounds and raw nerves. And rather than let her, just for the excuse to leave her with lots of open wounds and raw nerves, maybe I'll move things along a bit.

"So what do you have that gets me Frosty?"

"…Beg pardon, who?"

"Big Holmes. The Iceman." She's staring, looking a little blank. "Oh, so you've never met him? Well, you've got that coming to you, I suppose…"

This was too casual. She feels like she's gaining something now; tosses her head and starts tending her own agenda. "First things first, will you agree to help me?"

"Of course not. Why would I agree to do that before I know what exactly I'm getting out of it." There's a joke in that; if Seb or Danielle was here, they'd laugh at that. She's going after Mycroft. I _have_ to help her. I have to be in on it, otherwise I'm… not _in_ on it. There's no logic to this, it's just _basic_. But she doesn't know that, and I might as well remind her who's in charge of this conversation.

Very carefully, choosing her words, "I have… _codes_. I don't understand it myself, but I know they're important. The result of years of planning. Something to do with counter-terrorism. Holmes's project, by all accounts."

"What's the timeframe?"

"Hard to say. The event itself seems to be sometime next year. The timeframe for me… I think they already know I have them." …Promising. All very vague for now, but promising. I like that 'years of planning' bit. "I'm afraid that's all you get for now."

"What about proof?"

"Well, I could show you a corporate headshot of an MOD man and then one where he's wearing a collar and licking the soles of my shoes?"

"…So say we skip that and I just believe you. After all, like you say, you wouldn't have dared come to me if all of this wasn't on the level."

"And you're willing to take that at face value now, I'll bet."

Without really meaning to, "_Christ_, yes." She doesn't really laugh. It's the beginning of one, and a noise that could be cruel, humiliating, under other circumstances. But I honestly think she's more comfortable now. "Am I to take it, then, that you have demands to make of Mr Holmes and you would like them to be irresistible?"

"Ideally."

"Then you need to get at him on three levels; firstly, his work, his personal pride. Which you've got covered there, but it's too aggressive for an opening gambit. Secondly, then, what I would recommend, get at him on something safer, something false, something he fakes. Like all the Rule Britannia shite. Yes, he loves his country, but he loves the work more, so get him on all that mock patriotism. Any ideas?"

Does this sound like I'm giving it all up? She _looks_ like that's how it sounds. Hides it well, but there's this light in those cold bright eyes. Its name is victory, and it almost starts to piss me off. But there's no point in letting it annoy me. Telling her this much is completely safe. I could publish this much in a pamphlet and pass it out around every poor sinner I happen to work with, and Mycroft Holmes would probably never even find out. And do you know why? Because there's a difference between the theory and the practice. It's the difference between watching Enter The Dragon and knowing kung fu.

And I _do_ get a laugh out of it; she fishes out that mobile of hers, enters a pin code with incredible care and secrecy and finds a picture for me. Smiling a little, "Something like that?"

"Is that-?"

"That's who I was with when I called you last night." So we were both in the middle of tense situations with the young scions of terribly important families within the Commonwealth. She's got me beat on the terrible importance, but I'd say I have her beat on the tension. There's a lovely parallel there, don't you think? That's what I'm laughing at, more than the riding crop and all the black silk rope involved.

"I'd… Yeah, that'll probably do the trick." What I just said sinks in and, "Sorry, is that… 'Trick' is a term, isn't it?"

"Only for prostitutes," she says, shaking her head. Just correcting me, not taking any offence. Maybe she's used to those confusions. Or she's keeping me on side, more than likely, because she leans a little closer again and this time I try not to sit back away from her. She's got a glitter on her and asks, with excitement, barely concealed, "So what's the third thing?" Silly girl. The third way to Mycroft Holmes? The real kicker, the most important one, the only heartstring he wouldn't appear to have had surgically severed? Come on, Miss Adler, think. You can't rely on me for everything, you know. Think about it. Use that bright, sparkling brain of yours, that knows so much about everything. All about people's dreams and desires, that brain that _knows what he likes_. Come on. It's not difficult. "What, his brother? The detective?"

"Super-dooper clever gent, name of Sherlock, and a horse's arse of a name it is too, but that's for neither you nor I to do anything about. You'll need to do some real work there, personally. You've got the pictures to cover the other two bases, but this one… He's a bit special. But I can help you, and I have other people who can help you too." Isn't that kind of me? Isn't that a full and encompassing offer she should really be smiling and thanking me for? I'd be smiling and thanking me, in her shoes. Although, it demands to be noted, in her shoes I would be flat on my face and calling for help. I bet she doesn't know she's a masochist, but she will when one or both of her femurs shatter from the stress. But this isn't the point, the point is she's not smiling and thanking me, she's looking down at the table, and with a slight swaying of her head that seems to be saying 'no', and 'not good enough' and other such insults. "What?"

"This is sounding like a longer and longer game."

"Months," I tell her. "Easily." That's what it takes. This is what pisses me off, you know; people think I throw these things together overnight and hand out directions and jobs and everything just gets done. This is probably why I should have let her sweat a couple of days before this little meeting; now she has _expectations_. Must talk to Danielle about that efficiency of hers. It's getting to be counter-productive.

"I told you, they already know I have-"

Oh right. Yeah. 'They'. I can't help it, I'm laughing within seconds and I can't really stop. It's only when I see her staring at me, and in anger not confusion, that I find the breath to explain. "'_They_'? What, Brit intelligence? That's a contradiction in terms, love. No, no, no; you're sounding like you could prove useful to me. So you shouldn't be worrying about them."

"You mean, I'm protected?"

"As long as I have use for you, I'll see to it. Unless otherwise stated. Or it's entirely necessary."

"You have a lot of exceptions."

"I make a lot of exceptions for people with what you've got." And I'm not talking about bytes of information on a mobile either.

It's too early for a full proper plan to have formed, even in my mind, but I've got some ideas. Some beginnings, some opening plays. And enthusiasm too, that's the other thing I've got. Can't wait to work on this. I mean, I work all the time, I'm always planning something for somebody but this… this doesn't even feel like work anymore. Haven't gotten this way about a job since I first went for Sherlock, since I figured out what he was. I'm thinking there could be a lot of fun to be had with this one.

Firstly, "You're going to have to wait a while before it starts." Because neither of us will want Mycroft to think I'm in it right away. Let the incident at the pool fade a little from His Highness' mind, let the world turn a few times. Miss Adler deserves her dues, her spotlight, and I want my spot in the shadows back. "But here's what I want you to do; get out and go public. Make a spectacle of yourself."

"I made an MP leave Westminster on a leash at three a.m. last month. What more do you want from me?"

"Stay out of _The Sun_. Do something that gets you in _The Guardian_. I want one of those little How-To-Talk-About sidebars on dominatrices. One for the scrapbook, don't you know… I have a man, I'll get him to send you any potential affairs, marriage splits. Stick to the arts. But stay away from the Holmes boys. Keep an eye, certainly, and learn what you can about Sherlock, but don't let him know you. Just watch, and be patient, and beyond that I'll be in touch."

She doesn't like that. She knows she's in no position to argue, but she doesn't like that. She looks down again, probably at her phone under the table.

Oh, and hey, don't tell anybody, because it's a big secret, but Adler took a photograph of me. Quiet, though; she thinks I don't know. Bless her heart. She'd be hard pressed to find anybody in this new circle who doesn't know my face one way or another. That's what she's doing now, she's checking it came out okay, than it's clear. Then she puts it safely away.

I know a man now who once tried to pick my pocket on the Tube. Rather than have him killed I had him re-educated. Now he works for me. And while she was playing with that thing, while she had it out and no passcode required, he could take it from her hand and swap it for another so she didn't even notice. But people do so like to pretend monsters like that don't exist. They love to think they're safe. That's what she's not happy about. That's what she wants to know, lifting up those icy eyes and looking at me dead on, "And this protection?"

"The best kind. You'll never know it's there and you'll think you never needed it. You're in this now. Things are relatively simple now. So long as you don't cross me, I'm not going to do it to you. I know how you feel about threats, Miss Adler, so I'll leave it there. You can probably imagine what happens if we stop being friends, can't you?"

No witty come-back, no arch little roll of the eyes this time. This time she just accepts it. "Yes."


	5. Chapter 5

You know, that blog is a fecking _godsend_. Honestly. It's incredible. When the world ends, and I'm being dragged to the fiery pit, and John Watson is being raptured body and soul up amongst the angels, I'll be using my final moments to send him a drink, because I owe him that much. I skip the ones I feature in. Moran gives me a synopsis of them. But the rest is incredible. Indispensable, really.

I should do something for him. The kidnap was necessary, the bomb was necessary, so I can't feel _bad_ about it exactly, but I should do something nice for him.

Just on the off chance he's hanging around the flat, which he usually is, "_Moran_!"

Not Moran but Danielle leans out around the corner, "Went out for milk. What's the matter?"

"…I had a question, but I'll wait for Moran. Why are _you_ here?"

"I'm working the Cannes heist. Somebody has to run your business while you stalk your little boyfriend."

Not that I have to explain myself to her, but, "I am getting the Adler job ready, actually."

"And have been for the last month and a half. Must be an epic…" Six weeks. Six weeks I've been listening to shite like this. It's not just her anymore either. Moran's hopped on that bitchy little train. It's like they don't believe in her. Like I'm running a job for the tooth fairy. Even Milverton; I got Milverton to _meet_ Adler, with a list of recommendations for public scandal, and Milverton acts the same way. She _exists_. She has Twitter, and a very wonderful smart phone and she knows how to use it. She goes for singing lessons. She's definitely real.

She sends me messages sometimes. Usually in reference to Watson's creative writing endeavours. 'What do you think of Speckled Blonde?', that kind of thing.

To which I replied, 'Think it's a shit title'

'He's bored. And sad. Let's help.'

To which I replied, 'Not yet'.

That's happened a couple of times now. After the second time I turned her down she completed that preliminary homework I'd given her, breaking the news about not just the brightest star of the hip-lit crowd but also the man's wife. In all of this, she hardly appeared herself, just enough to be known. There was a great air of mystery about the whole thing, really good work. If we come through this and she can stay in the country maybe I'll set her up with Milverton for real. They'd make a hell of a team.

I got that sidebar clipping, don't you know. Hanging down the side of the computer monitor. 'My crib notes', Danielle calls them.

To which I replied, "Just because I'm keeping notes on recreational cruelty doesn't mean you should take that as a hint."

"Put the Cannes heist off," I tell her.

"What? No! Why?"

"Time it later in the year, meet the film festival, sleep your way through the A-list. It's a Tarantino year." She takes that on board, likes it very much. Then gets suspicious because she doesn't know how to deal with kindness in the face of her own bleak, cold-hearted callousness. "Come out here," and she does, weaving out of the living room, then starts to try something else but, "Do _not_ sit on my desk."

So she stands leaning on it instead. I watch, closely, and just as I suspected, she lasts less than ten seconds before she claws for a distraction. Asks if I want coffee, tries to head for the kitchen. I call after her that there's no milk yet and she has to come back. "What do you want?"

"You've been funny since Sherlock. Either explain it to me, or move the fuck on."

"_I've _been funny?!" she balks.

I'll spare you the details of the rest, but suffice to say it is a rant lasting, by the clock on my computer, three full minutes, and I can count the number of times she takes a breath without having to use my toes. Given she claims to be speaking for _all_ of my associates and not just herself, I'll put it into general, non-bitch terms.

They think I'm spending too much time with Sherlock. How ridiculous is that. For one, he's not here. For another, he probably wouldn't want to look at me if he was. I have, yes, been keeping close track of the blog. But that's for the reasons I outlined before; it's very useful. It is the most you could ever hope for when you're trying to know thine enemy. So I completely refute that as evidence of _anything_.

The second piece of evidence offered by the prosecution is the recent surge of online interest in the man himself, His Majesty, Crowned In Curls, and that bleeding hat, bless its tweedy soul. Wherever it is, may it live in eternal glory atop only silky hairs and satin scalps. The _hat_, and my love of it, are my counter evidence. Doing my part, via viral campaigning, manipulation of news channels etc, to turn Sherlock into an internet phenomenon, was work. And the hat made it so much easier. People cling to a hat. They really do. They _latch_ onto things. If you can take a photograph, and edit out the figure, and leave just one thing – Groucho's glasses, Hitler's moustache, _Sherlock's hat_ – and people will still know who it is? The job's half done. All you have to do then is keep his reputation clean until you need it otherwise.

"What _work_?!" was what was cried back at me. "How is that _work_, work towards _what_?!"

The burning. Why don't they know that? What has everything been work towards for the last… _God_ knows how long. Towards Sherlock, who is too dangerous to allow to continue, and towards Mycroft, who unworthy though he may be, I've never been able to catch. The lion and the unicorn, if you will. We've always known this. We've always been working towards this. And now it's here and suddenly all the support has vanished. The end has come and they've all decided to leave me alone. You think you _know_ people.

And at that, the prosecution rested. Specifically, by sitting on the edge of my desk, but I forgave her that. I forgave her putting her feet on the edge of my chair, and her elbows on her knees, and her face in her hands, as though despairing, as though she couldn't think how to make things any clearer for me.

But she thought about it a while. Looked up from her hands and turned them out to me, pointing, held together like a prayer. Said slowly and concisely; "The only reason anybody got away from that swimming pool alive is because you walked away. You _did_ it. Why isn't that enough? Why can't you move on now? What about that made it all worse?"

A better question, a much harder one to answer; which of those ridiculous queries was the stupidest?

Luckily, before we can get into an argument over it, Moran comes back with the milk. She hears the door and hops down off the desk, skims away like she was never there.

I take that lead, and the whole scene resets, as though all that accusation and defence never happened. "Moran!"

"Yes," he confirms, passing through, noticing nothing.

"If one were to do something nice for John Watson and from a distance so he'd never know, what would one do for him?"

Out of another room, filthy female laughter as Dani thinks of how she would have answered that one. Things, in that moment, could almost get back to normal. Everybody could get back to work. Drinks could be had on a Friday night without tension and people worrying what they'll say after one too many. I am swaying along the very brink of restored normality and oh, how I long for it (at least in my personal life. All it takes is one cup of tea. That's all. Make a cup of tea, get everybody in the same room, talking about something unrelated; that's what, seven, eight minutes, tops? I am eight minutes away from a bearable fecking life.

But there's no time for tea.

Because Sebastian Moran, rather than respond the way he usually does with a crude joke or a suggestion so ridiculous as to actually prove useful, says, "Your sister?"

A moment of silence. Danielle appears again, or just her head really, hooking round the door to watch. Me, in the interests of the 'eight minute' possibility, I decide to give him another chance. "Beg your pardon?"

"Yeah. I mean you could set them up. He's got flights to Dublin next week. He'll be lonely over there."

And I can't even say 'It was all going so well', because it wasn't, but it's still going worse now. "Please tell me this is the longest and least funny joke you've ever told me."

But sadly no; jungle drums brought this news to him and left Sebastian the unfortunate messenger to me.

Danielle, like a light switch, goes into maintenance mode, looks direct at me; "Could be completely innocent. If it's not a holiday it's probably something to do with a case-"

I tell her, "If it was a case it wouldn't wait until next week."

"-It doesn't make anything to do with you."

"No, it just never happened _before_ he showed himself and they heard his bloody voice."

"Seb, you're not helping."

"_Shut up!_" I tell them both. "Just give me a second." So Moran goes about making that tea that was supposed to save us all and doesn't have a chance anymore. Dani's phone rings and she goes back to postponing the Cannes job. And the Doctor's got tickets to Dublin. It's a ninety per cent chance it really is completely innocent. Nothing to do with anything that has anything to do with me. A _ninety-nine_ per cent chance.

I don't like that one, though.

While I'm thinking it over I get a message of my own. From Adler. 'Have you seen the Sun?'

I resist the urge to reply that the blinds are closed and I imagine it's much the same as usual. Instead, I bring up the newspaper's website. Two inch banner headline across the top reads 'Hatman and Robin Strike Again.'

A couple of seconds go by. And then that's it, decision made. It's been a shite morning but all these stupid boring little things all come together and everything falls into place, clicks. Awful, ridiculous factors, and I get up from my desk, stand between the doors where they can both see me. "Moran, beat back at those drums, find out dates and times. Dani, you're going to follow him, just until you know it is completely innocent. And if it's not don't tell me, just kill him or something, because I'll be busy."

Whoever's on the phone with her, she puts them on hold. "Busy?"

"Yeah. We're moving again. We've had enough of a break, I think. So clear the schedules. Postpone, farm out, delegate, call in every favour, issue every threat, because you'll be busy. I know you think it's one huge Easter Bunny, but the Adler job gets everything moving again. As fecking stressful as Greenwich was, get ready for twice that again. And if anybody doesn't like it walk off now and we'll say no more to each other."

For the briefest second they share a glance. It's too quick. I can't analyse it. But I don't like it. Something tells me there's nothing there to like.

But maybe I'm imagining things because then they're both laughing. "Calm down, la," Moran grins. "Where would _we_ be going?"

"Only to Cannes," Danielle sighs wistfully, but it's a joke, not even a complaint, it's just a joke. And she smiles before she turns away again and goes back to her conversation on the phone.

Maybe I'm imagining things. They say they're with me and they've never lied about that before, neither of them. Maybe I'm paranoid. Spending too long in the flat, staring at the computer; maybe that's one charge I should be pleading guilty to. Alright, fine. Bigger fish to fry anyway.

There's them old sayings again. Maybe I'm imagining things.

* * *

[To all UK fans - this is the third Sunday in January, which (sort of) makes it Jim's anniversary *snif*. Remember the Fallen. Well, no, wait... forget the fallen. Remember the fella who made him fall.]


	6. Chapter 6

So about a week of prep passes, which I won't bore you with. As and when you need to know something was done, I'll let you know that it was done. I'm not sure I should be giving out step-by-step instructions. You'd never have the access or the people or the equipment or even the simple balls and backbone to pull it off, but nevertheless… it all feels a bit much like giving away trade secrets.

Anyway, now I've got Reenie coming to talk through how she should be playing her first scene and – Adler. Sorry, I've got _Adler_ on her way for the long-awaited second meet. I don't call her Reenie. I've never called her that to her face. How could I have? I haven't seen her since Covent Garden. It's just one of those things that happens, isn't it? When you're thinking about somebody, like a client, working nigh constantly with them, no, _for_ them, it's just one of those things. Me and old Mycroft have _never_ come face-to-face and yet there's a whole _list_ of epithets he's known by round here.

Don't ask for a list. I'm trying to be serious today. Client meet. Trying to keep my head in the game.

For some reason, it's proving a lot easier said than done. For one, I'm facing the prospect of having to send somebody large and terrifying down to my dry cleaners. For another, here is a question I have been asked no less than five times already this morning –

"You're bringing her _here_?"

"Yes," I say. If you ignore the subtext, the carefully enunciated italics, _and I do_, it is an honest question. So I give an honest answer.

And because I pretended to ignore the italics, the italics are made more explicit for me, "To the _flat_?"

On this particular occasion, Sebastian is the one asking the question, but it hardly matters, because Danielle has asked it too. Not that I view them as a unit, not that you can't have one without the other. I'm not one of those social monsters that bundles people together like cheap DVDs. But they _would_ rather lend themselves to such an idea, if one were such a creature. For instance, I am perfectly aware of the fact that Sebastian has asked this stupid, disbelieving question on the majority of occasions it has been asked. See? I can separate them. Especially when his mate would finally seem to have shut up, first time in months…

"Yes, Moran, to the _flat_, to the _flat_. Now, I'm ashamed to have to take these Doctor Seuss tones with you, but what on earth is the matter with _that_?"

He raises his hands, wanders back out the door. Muttering, "Ours not to wonder why, James, ours but to shoot and spy."

Poetry. Reference humour. It rhymed and everything. He's on _fine_ form this morning. I'd be worried, if that little gag hadn't demonstrated such perfect appreciation of his place; Moran's here for my protection and the protection of this meticulously planned operation, and nothing else.

Anyway, what was I talking about? Oh yeah, dry cleaners, intimidation, possible warning murders. Because you see-

But it is at this juncture that Danielle clacks into the room, with her coat still on for some reason. I take the offending jacket, my evidence against that Polish _bastard_ round the corner and hold it out to her, "Sniff that and tell me what it smells like."

She sighs, "Dublin was fine, thanks. No, nothing untoward with Watson, never noticed me. Got a bit of shopping done, brought you a present…"

Oh. That's why she's still got her coat on. That's what that overnight bag will be doing in the hall behind her, then. Okay. "Wait, no. No. You were here. You were asking me sarky questions about me meeting Reenie here."

"That was on the phone. Do you just keep talking when I'm away?" I'm about to ask how often she goes away, if only to piss her off. I've had other things on my mind, that's all. But before I can punish her arrogance she gives me that sickening half-smile of hers. "_Reenie_ now, is it? Is that before or after 'Mistress'?"

I'm still holding out that jacket, by the way. I wait, say nothing; eventually we skip on torturing each other and she takes it. "Your good aftershave and the inside of your wardrobe, that's all… _Not_ that I know what the inside of your wardrobe smells l-"

"You're a suit-sniffing slag and everybody here knows it; that's why I asked you. Seriously, though, you don't smell it?"

"Smell what?"

"Bleach or something. Doesn't it smell like they've been using bleach?" First she's confused. Doesn't smell it at all, wants to ask where I'm getting that from. She makes me doubt myself. And then she bites in her lip like she understands, like it makes perfect sense to her. Looks so infinitely sad, turns her eyes on me with such compassion and mercy I want to put them out with kebab skewers just to stop her ever looking at anybody like that again. But when she opens her mouth to speak Moran's passing and trips over her bag in the hall.

"Alright, our kid? How was Dublin?"

Her smile just washes over her face like a tide. "Cold and uneventful, love," she breezes. "Is there coffee on?" Moran would tell her to get it herself. But she turns, and whatever way she looks at him, he too crumbles and just turns around. When he's gone she turns back to me. Holds up the jacket for me to turn into. "I can't smell anything, alright? I wouldn't worry about it."

"You've got your 'come down off the ledge' voice on. What am I missing?"

"Why don't you remember this?" Remember what? What's she talking about? And why did that sound like she was talking to herself more than anything? Please, Jesus, tell me I'm not the only one confused. And I don't know what's wrong with her nose, but I _can_ smell it. Maybe not bleach, bleach might be wrong, but close to it, something like bleach and again, before we can get into it and clear this up, there comes the front door buzzer.

Adler. Here.

I'm not ready. I wasn't even ready before Miss Mies decided to tear me down. What I'm thinking, she hisses; "_Shit_…"

Can't leave a client waiting, though. It's a bad, weak impression. I shout over her shoulder, "Moran, buzz her in."

Which gives us maybe two minutes. "Dani, explain, before you ruin me."

She doesn't explain. Delicately, with just the edge of her hand, she brushes off my shoulders, then braces herself and slaps me, just hard enough not to leave a mark. "There's no smell. Now let's just enjoy you telling a dominatrix what to do, hm?" Stunned, I walk past her where she leaves the doorway. Behind me, she kicks the bag in off the hall and closes all that clutter and unpleasantness inside. The sound of the closing door is good, helps.

"Moran!" and I point through to the kitchen. "Lurk. If she sees you, fine, but don't see her unless I need you to. I won't. Dani," is throwing her coat into the spare room and looks up, "let her in, say as little as possible, then come over like, I don't know, you _work_ for me and take care of me." I think she sees through the sarcasm.

Moran, disappearing, "That's the ticket; show her who's boss, boss." Hard to know which 'her' he's talking about.

Hard to care; Adler's here.

At the door; "Oh," she smiles, with mild surprise. "Hello, Danielle."

"Irene," is all the reply she gets. "Can I fetc-_get_ you anything?"

A brighter smile, "Not today, thank you."

Wait…. Wait… Does that little exchange mean what I think it means? Has my thief played fetch with the lady of whip and chain? Oh, that cheers me up. There are _days _of good clean fun in that. Yeah. I'm ready now. I can manage this now.

Dani leads Adler back, past only closed white doors, to this one open space at the rear of the flat. There's nothing to it; two long couches which were not designed for comfort facing each other over a glass table, tall stools at the window for someone to sit behind me, a door opening onto the kitchen so Moran can effectively lurk. The war room, we call it. As much as I usually avoid doing any business here at home, when it's unavoidable I like to be ready for it.

Adler pauses. To the untrained eye, she is taking it all in. Trained, and you know she's standing there to make her own impression; she's had time to prepare for this. Looking cold and regal in white, sharp with black piping to emphasize the tailoring, glossy, immovable hair, flawless make-up. Her message is clear; the last time I caught her was a one-off. I've made my point, and now we're moving on. From here on out, this si the woman I'm going to be dealing with.

With more than a hint of tension, Danielle gets past a smile I can't help to play her part; "Will there be anything else?"

"Stay," I tell her, nodding at the end of my couch. But she takes one of the window seats instead. If she thinks just because I can't see her she'll be able to sit up there crossing and recrossing her legs at Adler, she's got another thing coming.

I stand to greet my guest. "Very impressive space," she says. "Not what I imagined."

"While I'm sure we could spend a very entertaining hour talking about interiors…" I gesture, open hand, to the opposite sofa.

She settles, with bob of her proud head, "Absolutely. Straight to business."

"Well, you haven't exactly been patient thus far."

"I'm not used to waiting for what I want. And having to ask more than once was…" Arch, pursing her lips, "_Harrowing_."

Jesus. I should have ambushed her again. Certainly there was far less of the innuendo last time. She was a much more agreeable creature all over last time. A life like mine, a business like mine, I _live_ for the upper hand. And it's very rarely I come up against somebody who's used to the same thing.

"All good things," I tell her, with as much boredom, as much too-perceptive-for-this-shite as I can manage. There's an actual word for that sentiment, but I've forgotten it just now. Nothing to do with this wilfully blank woman in front of me, inaccessible as a Barbie doll. "First things first, Miss Adler, do you still have those photographs you took the night we first spoke?"

"Of course."

"And they're still unique, still unknown to anyone but us?"

"Yes."

"Then we're still in business."

"And how much do you think they're worth?" Oh, dear. No, no, Reenie; she can dress up how she likes, she can play all the little mind games she can master, but she needs to stop saying things like that. That gives her away, day one, minute one. Now, me, I'm a gentleman, so I can be polite and just shake my head. But behind me I can just _feel_ the smile spread across Danielle's face, feel her turning her head away to hide it. Adler still knows, looks up over my head, "Excuse me?"

Danielle, with mock-sympathy; "You've never played on _quite_ this level before, have you?"

I snap at her and she shuts up. Adler looks back at me, "I don't understand."

"There's no cash request at this point."

Oh, she's not happy. Oh, she wants her riding crop. You can see it in her eyes, that she's already picturing the latticework she could make of my back for messing her about so unforgivably. It's well concealed, this vicious rage of hers, but I've dealt with her sort. She's bearing with me, but she hates it. And Christ God Jesus, you can _feel_ her sucking the energy out of the room, just to be able to readjust her face and ask, "Well, whyever not? I'm not sure what they're worth on the open market, but certainly it's more than _nothing_."

Did you catch that? That 'open market' bit? Did you catch that? Because I did. "There's no need to resort to threats." Especially when _I'm_ having to be so very good about them, in order to protect your delicate sensibilities. "At least allow me to explain first. If you ask for money, they'll pay you. Mycroft Holmes will never even know about it, never mind get involved. And you don't get to play with Sherlock either."

Which changes her mind. She's looking forward to playing with Sherlock. I knew she would; that's why I told her to keep an eye on him, to keep following. She comments on Watson's blog, you know. She thinks she hides herself well enough, but I catch things like that, little bits of syntax, little arch jokes and innuendo. She uses the suitably multi-meaning alias of 'you-against-me', if I'm correct. But I won't put that little embarrassment to her unless she forces my hand.

Maybe it's just the company I'm keeping, but does 'forces my hand' sound like… Nah. They're just getting to me.

"Are you telling me I could blackmail Buckingham Palace and just be _paid_?"

"Danielle," I say over my shoulder, "How many people do we know of currently-?"

"Thirteen. Well, the gent with the Vegas Harry pictures is courting the Daily Star." Usually I would stop her. I don't need the real number, I just need to tell Adler what she's dealing with, really. But I get distracted, because the sound of her voice reminds me she couldn't smell anything, but I'm sorry, Dani love, you're wrong, because that stench is still here. It's getting worse, if anything. She should be able to smell it from up where she's sitting. I'm pretty certain it's only Adler's devotion to absolute composure that's stopped her commenting. But Dani continues, finishes, "They're not giving him price yet, but… Call it twelve, for safety."

"A safe twelve," I tell Adler, shaking off the scent. "And that's just the ones we know of. It's about the one family in the world that really can just _afford_ it. They set aside a fund every year just for paying the blackmailers, until they can get them bumped off. No, ask the Queen for money and you'll get it. If you want to play with the real royal Majesties, you're going to need to be a little bit more intriguing. Danielle, we have somebody at the Palace, don't we?"

"Charlie does."

"Go and get it off him." Then, because I can't resist, "And fetch through a contact card for Miss Adler, would you?" She doesn't respond. She slides down from her stool and just goes about it.

Adler waits for her to go. Then looks back to me and with new confidentiality, "I'm afraid I still don't understand. What do I ask for in return?"

"That's the beauty of it. You don't ask for anything. Tell them the pictures exist, and then insist that you're not a threat. It'll be the end of the world as the Windsors know it. There'll be war counsels held over you. Which gets you Mycroft, which gets you Sherlock. Be satisfied with Sherlock for now. Get that far, we'll walk you through the rest."

Bless her, none of this has ever crossed her mind, not for a millisecond, never would have in a million years. Now that I tell it to her, it's the most sensible thing she's ever heard. She already knew it in her heart, I'm just giving it form. But that's just the world we live in, isn't it? I'm having to gradually wean her off these material pretensions, these silly notions about wealth and request. The culture, currently, would have us believing in a very simple version of cause and effect. The platitude for this would be 'If you don't ask you don't get'. 'You only get what you give'. A very physics-based, make Newton proud, scientific approach. Which is absolute shite. Human beings aren't like that. Everything must be done by clever, comprehending stages.

Irene Adler has the potential to learn that, and to use it very well indeed. But this initial transition is proving a bit difficult for her.

"A longer and longer game," she reminds me. Disappointed, but she'll get over it.

"I've been in it for the better part of eight years. I can promise you it'll run nowhere _near_ that length of time."

I'm not sure she finds that so comforting as I meant it to be.

Dani comes back with a pristine white card, elegantly handwritten. Adler turns to accept it, reaching over the back of the couch. "He should be expecting your call," Dani says, with admirable dignity.

"Thank you." Adler's tone, it's exactly like she's saying 'well done' or 'good girl'. Danielle ignores it. She comes over quickly, and sits behind me again. "So… This first, Mr Moriarty?"

"And we'll take it from there."

"You won't tell me the rest of the plan now, will you?"

"Of course not. That would spoil all your reactions."

"I'm a wonderful actress."

"For the stage, maybe, but this is real life. Feel free to wing it if you don't trust me."

So, knowing what's best for her, she puts the little card away in a pocket so carefully tailored it can hold no more than a card or two and stands. "Then I'll be in touch when it's done."

"No, we'll get that direct from Buck House, thanks. I'll call you."

Which leaves her nowhere to go and nothing to say. This isn't what she imagined it would be. Maybe she thought, once she got all dressed up, got her face on straight, things would be more like they are when she's working. Like, Moran thinks I don't know about this, but he breaks out his old army dog tags whenever he goes on a job that might be dodgy. Like they make him a soldier again, ready for anything, capable of at least _believing_ he's indestructible. Costumes change their opinions of themselves, their expectations. She should let her hair down when she talks to me, she would feel better about it all.

She stands there mute, and Danielle lets her suffer just a second too long before she hops down to escort her to the door. That, she can deal with. That helps her. There's a slight, backward lean in her walk, like she's holding a rope. Very likely, somewhere in her mind, she is.

I sit back down and take a second, thinking I probably dealt very well with that. Moran comes through from the kitchen and would seem to concur. That doesn't worry me like it would sometimes… I'm thinking back on everything before Adler came in, which didn't go so well. And out of smells and stinging slaps and I really, really need to wash that off my face before it starts to fecking itch, there's one thing strikes me as suddenly very important, something I have to ask about immediately, without further delay, something that must be dealt with post-post-haste.

The sound of the door closing, Danielle coming back with a smile on her face. I don't give her time to tell me I'm her hero, talking to Adler that way, I already know that. Anyway, she'll have plenty of chances to express that. And for now, like I say, there's more pressing business. "Present. You said the word 'present' when you came in."

"In my bag, you giant four-year-old."


	7. Chapter 7

In the days that followed, I've said several things I don't usually get to say. These included such classics as:

'Right, that's the CIA man turned. Now find me a shower of bastards to go with him.'

'What's Adler's secret, that I have a ten minute argument with you and she can just say 'Fetch'?'

And, my personal favourite, 'She's awfully forward, this bloody dominatrix…'

The same bloody dominatrix I'm on the phone with when the front door opens. She's going into her live performance tomorrow and she's going to need a little extra coaching to make it work. Make sure she doesn't say anything about money this time either. I have plans, you see, a few surprises for her and even if she doesn't know they're coming, it would be nice if she survived into the next round. Naturally there's a Plan B in case she doesn't, but really it's much less trouble if she lives to fight it out.

Anyway, unless Moran's taken to high heels, Number Five and sultry hanging in doorways, he's still out getting the Yanks geared up for tomorrow. We're borrowing them from a military unit seconded to the U.S. Embassy with links to the SIS. Or, in layman's terms, we're nicking them out from under Mycroft's pointy, much-looked-down nose. Ask me if I could be happier.

A little bit. That's the answer. Just a little bit happier.

Dani's waiting for attention while I talk to Adler. But she does come out of the doorway. She comes right over next to me. See, since she came in, and even for a bit before she came in, I've been looking down into the sink. Because the smell is back, and this time I'm pretty sure this is where it's coming from. She comes over to see what I'm looking at. And again, it must be her smoking, but she seems to be losing her sense of smell, because she's all confused, not getting anything.

Adler's saying, "This afternoon?"

And I'm telling her, trying not to sound distracted. "Should be absolutely fine. You know where to find me."

"And you're absolutely sure she'll be amenable?"

"Is that _really_ something that worries you, Irene?"

A pause. "No, quite right. Until this afternoon, then."

Hang up, put the phone away, and in the same breath as goodbye I turn to Danielle, "Don't tell me you're not getting that!"

"A half-clogged drain and last night's curry. What's wrong?"

"And nothing else? Nothing on top of that, sort of sharp, but cloying-"

She shakes her head, "And like bleach only not, isn't it?"

"So you _can_ smell it."

Danielle looks away. For a moment, I feel like she might leave the room, but she doesn't. She puts her coat over the back of a chair and sits down. Takes out a cigarette. She knows better than to light it in my home, but it helps her to toy with it, gnawing the end. "No, darling," she says. "It's just you… Who was on the phone?"

"Don't change the subject." Don't worry me and then change the subject; don't tell me I'm going mad and then change the fecking subject.

"I'm not." Runs a hand through her hair and kicks another chair out from the table. I _think_ that's an invitation anyway… "Who was on the phone?"

"Adler," I tell her. The expected answer, from the way she nods. "By the way, I need you to stay and talk to her."

"About what?"

"Don't change the subject. What's Adler got to do with anything?"

"Nothing, except I can guess what you were talking about. Worse than the fucking fanclub, you two…" Normally she knows better than to swear at me too. But because she keeps touching her face, because one hand starts covering her mouth between speeches like she'd rather not talk at all, I'm letting it go, for now. "I'm going to kill Seb," she mutters. "Already asked him to talk to you about this, after the other day…"

"Talk about what? Why? Why Moran?"

She breaks, snaps loudly, "Because he can't deal with it either! He'd make it sound like a joke and you'd get over it quicker, but I can't! I can't laugh about it." I'm about to tell her just to spit it could when she steadies herself and says calmly, concisely, "You don't appear to remember this, but during the five days, week maybe, that immediately followed the incident at the swimming pool, you told us repeatedly that you could still smell chlorine. Could that possibly be the stench that keeps cropping up around the flat?"

Yeah. Sharp and yet still cloying, bit like bleach, a scouring smell, a whole parade of bad memories; school trips, Carl Powers, and of course that last and most galling event. Yeah, very likely, chlorine could be the smell.

"I'm not imagining it."

Danielle shakes her head again. Telling me she's in perfect agreement with what I just said. She says aloud, "It's real to you."

"This is not in my head. There is a _smell_."

"Calm down, Jim. I'm not saying there isn't. It's just you're the only one who-"

"Get out."

"What?"

It's a simple command. Certainly much more common and less complicated that 'Fetch' so why is she having so much trouble with it. I get up, get her coat off the chair, hold it up so she'll get the picture and put it back on. "Just leave. Now." She's not even standing up, sits there chewing her cigarette, muttering how she's only trying to help, not moving. As much as I hate to do it, I get her by the back of the collar and haul her up. The chair overturns beneath her and for a second it's only her collar and my fist holding her up, before she can get her feet back beneath her. "Come in here, fucking trying to Gaslight me. Sat around telling me, oh aye, yeah, we're with you, every step of the way, and all the time, all the time you're doing this?!"

She spins out of my grip, "Excuse me?! Fucking explain that so I'll know I jumped to a stupid conclusion!"

"You're doing this, aren't you? You set this up. The smell. You put it there and you're just pretending not to-"

"Oh, fuck off… You're paranoid!"

"I never said a _thing_ about smells those first five days. I'm not mad; I'd remember saying that. Why wouldn't I remember?"

"You tell me, love."

The bitch. The bitch stands there and looks me dead in the eye through all of this, like she's got any right to even be in this room. I've got her, caught her, and she's still going to stand there and argue it with me. I'm not asking or accusing, I'm telling her, "You're doing this."

"Why? Tell me why I'm doing this and I'll fuck off and you'll never see me again. And then if you're still smelling things you can call me and apologize, how's that?"

It's not that I fumble. I'm just gathering evidence. Thinking of all the awful things she's been doing and saying since the pool. She's been trying to put me off and I could never figure out why. "What were all the questions last week? Asking me why the pool couldn't just be enough, do you remember that?"

"Because you _won_," she groans, like _I'm_ the one who's just not getting this. "He only walked away by _default_. I would have said it was over." She shrugs. That's all there is, by way of explanation. That's all she has. Like it's that fecking simple! She _knows_, knows default is never enough, knows there's no one single grain of anything resembling truth in what she just said to me. The bitch. One of my closest and this is what we've come to. Jesus, God help me, the fucking bitch…

I dropped her coat when I grabbed her. Now I pick it up again and shove it into her hand. This time she takes the hint. I'm glad; if she was missing it now I'd be _worried_ about her.

Anybody else, I'd just murder. Dani, I follow to the door. But she puts her hand out to open it and stops. Turns to me, with her mouth already open like she's going to give me another argument, one last desperate chance at staying to continue on with this _sick_ little trap of hers. She sees the look on my face and relents. Whatever she was going to say she changes tack. "You need me to stay and talk to Adler. You said that. You didn't tell me what about."

No.

No I didn't tell her. Because I knew there'd be some wheedling and cajoling to do. I had it all planned out in my head. See, before we were all up to speed with each other, before he was anybody to anybody, Miss Mies here knew our own dear Sherlock rather well. Intimately, if you believe some of the stories. And when I say 'intimately' I'm being delicate. Now, being a gentleman, and having formerly thought of Miss Mies as a friend of mine, I wasn't going to push that angle too hard. All I would have asked her to do was give Adler a tip or two on how to deal with the detective. Nothing she wasn't comfortable with. I was even ready to step in, to defend her if Adler was asking for too much. And I never would have told Adler where all this knowledge had come from. Danielle, I would have told her, is a professional seductress in my employ, and has been studying Sherlock for quite some time. That's all I was going to say.

Because I am a gentleman, and I had thought her to be a friend of mine.

Obviously things are a bit different now. I've got a hand on the door by her face, just by the fingertips, just bouncing very slightly. She's not making eye contact anymore. She's learned that much of her new place.

"Yeah. Yeah, you're right, I do need you to stay and talk to Adler. Actually, if you do this right, maybe we could rethink your leaving and never coming back. Show me you're willing to back me up-"

Angrily, practically shouting at me, "That's all I've ever done!"

"You tell 'em, sweetheart, you tell 'em… Show me you're willing, redeem yourself, and maybe we'll talk. Maybe you get another chance. Don't underestimate what an incredible generosity this is on my part. Don't let me down."

"What do you want from me?" She's not admitting defeat. The way she says it, it's more like she's curious, spotted something that _might_ work for her, but she's not willing to commit just yet. You have to love that she still talks like she has a choice.

She did. She did have a choice. She had a choice right up until the moment she mentioned Adler, right up until the moment I figured _everything_ out. Oh, Dani, love, I've got your number now, alright. Should have seen this long, long ago…

She's trying to drive me mad. She's trying to put me off my pursuit of the Holmes brothers. She was _relieved_ when I came back from the pool disappointed. And I could have been arrogant and egotistical and believed this was to do with me, but it's not, is it? Everything she's done, she's not doing it for me. She's telling me I've won, but it's not to make me feel better, it's to make me stop. To make me leave _Sherlock_ alone…

Oh, this is beautiful. This is punishment I never could have planned. It is imminent, it is enough to be fitting, it reasserts my authority and it is _perfect_.

Part-rage and part-_rapture_, I tell it to her. Just to watch her wilt with every word, to watch it strip her back, show up every raw nerve in her vicious, bleeding, liar heart. "Adler's coming here to be prepared for tomorrow. That's when they're going to call in Sherlock, see. She needs to know how to deal with him when he shows up. And, in the interests of the next stages of the job, she intends to attempt something of a seduction. You're going to tell her everything she needs to know to make an impression. To make herself unforgettable. Give it all over to _her_ now, Danielle, and then maybe you and me'll talk."

She slides out from where I have her trapped. She's not walking out the door, but back into the flat. She doesn't say a word, just drops her coat off her shoulders again, turns into the living room and gently closes the door on me.

No dice, angel, sorry. The damaged and demure bit isn't going over this time.

McLeod wanders along, nosing at the door after her. Then looks at me as if to say, 'The fuck was that?' "C'mere. That's not your Aunty Dani anymore. I'm the one with the tin opener around here." I swear to God that cat knows the word 'tin opener'. I swear to _God_, because he leaves the living room door immediately and follows me back into the kitchen. Hops up on the countertop and looks into the sink. Sniffing. Animals don't lie, they don't know how to. Definitely smells.


	8. Chapter 8

I'm sure you can imagine, the day after discovering such heinous betrayal, I'm not really at my best. Dani, for once in her life, isn't hovering around me like that one fly every summer you can never get and refuses every open window offered to it. She walked off yesterday when we were finished with Adler. We could have talked, then, because I feel like she did really well. Obviously I don't know half as much about the art of seduction as the aforementioned dom and the aforementioned whore I may no longer employ, but I feel like she was open and honest and told all she had to tell. We could have talked. And she _chose_ to look hurt and offended and walk off without a word. Her choice. I didn't tell her to go.

And there's been no smells. Which is proof, is it not? She hasn't had any opportunity to plant her little tricks. Chloridamides are fucking lethal, y'know; she could have killed me, having me sniffing at that all the time. That's what she would have had to use to get that real, authentic swimming pool scent and she could have killed me.

Moran hasn't mentioned it. He turned up yesterday evening, but it was only to confirm plans for today. He slept in the spare room, but again, it was only because he'd had a couple of drinks. He's not spying on me. No, he hasn't mentioned anything. Normally she tells him everything, but she can't take her betrayals to a _loyal_ friend, now, can she?

Anyway, enough about that. I'm going to put that out of my head. It's already taken up more time and energy than she deserves and more than I really can spare.

Well, no, not quite enough just yet. I have to make a brief phone call to the ruthless Borgia in question.

"Yes?" is how she answers her phone. No hello, no good morning, no immediate and hasty stammering in apology. She sounds hard and cold and tearful, like graveyard angels.

"Harry Janus is running you round a fresh car. Park up two streets from Adler's place. Moran will trigger you if and when she needs her lift."

"Okay," she says. "Will there be anything else?"

"No." I hang up first, because I know that's her intention and I want to take that away from her. Is it petty? Yes. Is it more than she deserves? Yes.

There. Now _that's_ enough about her. We'll not talk about that anymore. We'll draw a line under that, learn a lesson about picking up staff whose hearts lie elsewhere and be done with it.

And we will _keep_, thank you very much, the staff we have in check from now on, and if I have to bang that spare room door one more fecking time to get a certain former soldier out of bed… Honestly, it's worse than keeping a teenager.

Oh, and don't worry; I'm pretty sure Moran now hates the army he left. There's a long old tale to be told there, but suffice to say, I saw with my own eyes how that whole relationship crashed and burned. And, y'know, I'm pretty sure he never screwed Queen and Country or did anything daft and sentimental like that. So we're all good on that front. Moran's fine. We still trust Moran.

"I'm up, I swear," he grumbles at me through the door.

"You have Americans to lead into battle!" …Another one of those things I don't get to say very often.

A little after eleven, I get a message. A friend of the association, who we keep purely because the little twit works in the caf under Baker Street, is sending me attachments. 'Thought you might like this'. And for once in his life the daft pig is right; it makes me smile. They are pictures of Sherlock being taken from his home by men in elegant suits. Our friend himself, however, is wearing nothing but a well-wrapped sheet, and still holding his head up high, like Caesar being taken to be stabbed. I'm sorry, but on a long low morning, I needed a smile, and this is it.

For lack of anybody else to share the joke with, and knowing she'll appreciate it, I attach the same pictures to a new message. 'I'm sending you a treat'. And this I pack off to Adler.

She doesn't reply right away. I'm only mentioning it because she usually does. Never too far from her phone, you see. Sort of makes you wonder, does it not, what her initial reaction might have been. And when the reply comes, it says, 'I think it's time, don't you?'

Don't you just love that? The illusion of control, even at this stage. She couldn't stop it even if she wanted to.

I send back, 'If you get shot today, it's your own stupid fault. Come through this and we'll take you to the end.' I imagine her laughing. She probably thinks she's got enough to go on that, even should Sherlock show up armed, he'd never, ever fire. And that's probably true. But she doesn't know the Americans are coming.

I told you I had surprises for her.

While we're all just waiting I cast an eye over the case notes from the scene Watson went to this morning. It's a funny one, certainly. Tell you one thing, though, it wasn't murder. Not a chance. Single blow to the back of the head from that lardy bastard, the fella wouldn't have more than stumbled. The 'murderer' would have done more damage to himself…

Oh well, I'm sure I'll find out. Reenie was told to expect, not small-talk, but case-talk. Was told, 'Don't upstage him. Don't solve it for him. He doesn't like not being the smartest person in the room.' See? This is why you need an inside line on people like him, because _I_ would have said the opposite. I would have said, in order to keep him from getting too bored, you probably ought to at least attempt to show some insight.

I should have made Dani talk _years_ ago. I know I'm not supposed to be thinking about this, but really, one brief torture session and all of this could have been avoided. And, not to be arrogant, but I like to think I probably could have gotten her back on side after any unpleasantness. All of this could have been avoided and she'd still be here.

…In the interest of cosmic balance, I should perhaps still be considering that one brief torture session. Little bit of flaying, maybe. Just a little bit. Give her something to remember me by. I'll get back to you on that one.

Then I get distracted by pictures of Holmes and Watson in the back of a cab. A cab, like? Really? Who leaves Buck House and just jumps in a cab? Surely you get a driver when you're leaving there. Flipping on through the pictures and aha… unless you've stolen an ashtray. Oh, he does make me happy, when he's not driving me crackers. He really does.

These two I forward to Irene. 'On his way'.

That ought to give her a chance to get ready. Give Moran time to get the troops in position. Irene's driver for today a chance to get down to Belgravia.

Smooth running. That's what I like to see. After all the hard work and the sufferance, this is how I know it was all worth it. When it all goes to plan.

The next message I get is from Danielle. Making it awfully hard to move on and not think about her anymore. But it's intriguing, because there's another attachment, and the message itself reads, 'You won't care about the source'. Which must mean it's _really _good. And why should I resist? Why should I miss this really good thing just because she turned out to be the very bleakest kind of evil?

So I open it.

It's grainy, phone-camera footage, shot out the back window of a silver car. It shows Holmes, for whatever reason, getting the daylights kicked out of him by Doctor Watson. After which, they both straighten up, Holmes puts a clerical collar on, and they walk off as friends. It's a sequence of events that will stay with me to the grave, and beyond even that.

She was right. I don't care about the source.

In my capacity as overseer of the project, there's a lot of waiting time today. Forgive me if I get a little bit bored and have to find ways to pass the time. For instance, there's a site online that sells these beautifully made, photo-realistic roses made entirely of leather. I send a dozen, eleven black and one blood red, to Mycroft Holmes.

I compose an email to a decidedly unscrupulous London contact about having Miss Mies's cat murdered. It's a horrible, scarred old thing, on her last legs anyway, name of Tesla. But right at that moment McLeod hops up on the desk to beg for lunch. He knows Tesla well enough. And I remember overhearing her tell him how she would have taken him in if anything had happened that night. So I save the message away to drafts, for now. I'll think about it later, when the furry little bundle of emotional blackmail is out and about somewhere.

And I have a little look down Irene's Twitter for the last couple of months as well. Notice something I didn't before. When it's just update after update, you lose things. It's just 'what happened today'. But when you read it all together you start to see patterns, and how short the time frame is.

What I'm noticing is the other name. There's always another name. If Watson kept Twitter, the name would be Sherlock. If I kept it it would be… Moran, more than likely. You know; the other name, the person they're always talking about and reporting their conversations with. With Adler, it tends to be her 'maid'. Don't ask me to explain the inverted commas; I'm not actually all that sure why I'm using them. So far as anybody can tell, they seem to be genuine live-in maids. I think the inverted commas say more about my perceptions of what being maid to a dominatrix would involve.

Now, before all this business started, and I remember the precise date of that quite clearly after all, the name had been Marie for almost a year. One week later, Marie changed to Francesca. Who lasted two weeks, followed by Skye, at a record two and a half days. So on and so forth, until we reach the latest. Kate.

She's worse than Watson, for God's sake. No wonder Sherlock doesn't know the earth revolves around the sun. Everything in _his_ world revolves around him anyway…

Just to let me know they're on their way, Moran sends me a picture of Irene rappelling down from her bathroom window, naked but for Holmes' coat and carrying a riding crop. At the other end of the entry you can just see that silver car again, Danielle waiting.

Adler, naked, Sherlock's coat. I couldn't have _planned_ it better. I hope it tears her fucking heart open, because Christ knows she's done that to… She's done that before, anyway.


	9. Chapter 9

There's a problem.

This, in itself, is not an event. There's _always_ a problem. The simplest job in the world, there's going to be a problem. There's going to be an alarm that wasn't on the floorplan or somebody's going to talk to the wrong person or not do as they're told and get shot and all of these things will cause problems. I expect it. How dull would my life be if there were no problems and everything went hitchlessly from start to finish? I love problems. My favourite thing in the whole world is a big tangly problem to sit and work at. I get like a pig in shit. Ask Moran, he's seen it happen.

What I'm _not_ used to, and what I don't like, and what makes me want to lock all concerned parties including myself in a small room full of gas jets where the only choice is between slowly suffocating or a certain somebody lighting a fag and we'll be done with it, is when I'm being told that the problem came from _my_ end.

"I was," Adler claims, "_woefully_ misinformed."

You'd be so proud of me; I am the picture of calm. You're stupid, so you'd be _so_ proud of me. You'd be thinking, God he's doing well. Under the power of that sort of discourtesy, wow, what miracle from God is this, that he's not currently removing her face with wire wool? Maybe he's a worthwhile human being after all. Oh, you daft sod, you'd be so proud of me.

People who _aren't_ thick are getting a bit worried. Moran, for instance, if I'm reading him right, is getting ready to jump between me and her if she steps any further over her mark. And that other bitch, who has been admitted to my presence again for reasons we'll come on to soon enough, she sees it too, but she's just watching. Maybe gauging whether she could risk mixing herself a drink. Don't ask how we found this out, but she likes nothing better than a martini with a splash of blood in it.

With a face like a Buddhist idol, I mildly echo, "_Woefully_ _misinformed_?"

And rather than take both the hint and the opportunity that she might take this back, Adler nods her proud, arresting head and says, "Yes." And she gets this look on her face like a coach driver who's just gone past his turn, but he's not going to admit that to the passengers. Fine. Fair play to her. Once she's put it out there, we might as well just fire away and do this thing.

"Might I point out to you," I say, still the perfect Dalai Lama, "that by the very fact of your standing here, you are proven to be alive and well? And that the fact of your being alive and well, in turn, proves that the initial goal, i.e. to become an enormous arse-pain to one Mycroft Holmes, has been well and truly attained?"

See that? See how level and fair I'm being, putting that before her so she can make sense of it for herself? So she can back the fuck off before we just take her mobile off her and Moran takes her to see the undertakers? What they do is, they bury an illicit body in the bottom of a grave already dug. Next morning, there's a funeral, and then there's a totally legit corpse and six feet of earth on top of any dirty little secret. Adler doesn't know that, but she could be told.

She is, by the way, still dressed only in Holmes' coat. Holding on to it rather tightly. I'm not sure yet if that means anything, or if she's just developed some sense of propriety. From the way she plops herself down, square in the middle of my couch, and folds her legs where the coat parts, I'd say it probably means something. "You might well point it out," she says, "And I might well question it on every possible point."

'Alive and well', she says, was through no action of mine, and where was her so-called protection when the Americans landed in on her this afternoon? It was, she claims, only by her wits and Sherlock's (direct quote-) 'extraordinary perceptiveness' that she survived that.

I am as peaceful as the depths of the sea; "You were never in any real danger."

Adler is not peaceful. She's in turmoil for a few seconds while that sinks in and she unpicks the implications. Then she rages. "You knew about that?"

"The Americans work for us. The tall gentleman behind you, have you met Moran? Moran had them well briefed."

Moran chips in, "Why do you think they were going to shoot Watson first? Everybody knows you go for the woman first. I can't think of a single circumstance where-"

I interrupt, "Burma." Which would be absolutely correct and fine, only Danielle says it too, and in the same moment, and without looking at me.

"Alright, so Burma," Moran admits. "But we're not telling the Burma story. In short, you were well tipped-off, Miss Adler. The Americans are ours, don't worry about them."

And here, even in the midst of all this tension and unpleasantness, she has the grace to look worried and says quickly, "The gun in my safe, he got in the way, it was nothing to do with me-"

"Oh, we don't care about them. They're ours, but not in any sentimental, attached sort of way. Kill as many of them as you want. Now," and I reach over to the table for my coffee, because I feel like this whole bloody shadowplay might take a while. She'll ask all her questions and I'll answer them and she'll leave no better off than she arrived, except she might be dressed. There's nothing she can do. A session like this, I can force her to accept that. "You had more holes to poke in what a good day you were having?"

I wish I was in a better mood. Sometime before this is over I have to do this again and really take the time to enjoy it. I hate to say it, but somebody I used to think I knew was right; there's great fun to be had, when you're in control of somebody like Miss Adler. All those years of saying Frog and watching people jump, and saying 'Lick my boots, scum' and not getting punched in the face, they've left her with this aggravated sense of entitlement which is wondrous pleasurable to dismantle. But I'm not in a better mood. As you're probably beginning to imagine, it's taking pretty much everything I've got to stay sat down.

Maybe somebody sitting behind me on a high stool and with a sneaky cameraphone is getting a picture of that look on her face for me to enjoy later on. Maybe not.

"I'll give you your point about Mycroft," is how she puts it. Awful good of her, that. I get a point. Like they're not all my points and they're not all airtight. I should have CCTV in here. I could come back tonight and watch her clawing for some scrap of what she thinks is hers. "Where I really must protest, however, is in what I was told about the _younger_ Holmes."

Oh.

Dani wouldn't have… Nah. Bitch she may be, but she has a degree of respect for human life. Well, so long as it's her own, she does. Nah. No, she wouldn't have tried to… Nah, no way. And the biggest mistake I could possibly make right now is to condescend to even _think_ the word 'sabotage', because once I've thought it it's practically true and… Oops.

Oh, dear, now it's a fact.

"Oi, poison!" I call over my shoulder, beckoning Miss Mies down from her perch. "Get over here and defend yourself." It's the fastest she's come, the least backchat I've had, since before the Greenwich job. She doesn't look at me when she sits down, but I lean round, so I know I'm in the corner of her eye, so I know she sees a shadow saying, "Do a decent job of defending yourself." I hope she can hear me clearly. If she misses any of the intonation, that might actually sound like a hopeful, encouraging thing to say. Adler's a better pupil; she catches it right away. Knows that something has happened, though not what, and she won't be a bright-eyed bunny if she thinks she's been caught in some sort of personal crossfire. And that's one complaint I would not hold against her, not for a second.

With her newfound lack of respect for me, it costs Mies nothing to spark up a fag and ignore me entirely. She looks right across at Adler, gesturing with a trail of smoke, "You were _not_ misinformed."

"Oh, no? I explicitly recall the recommendation to _shock_ him-"

"Yeah," Dani says, grimly smiling, "I did not, however, tell you to take all your clothes off now, did I? You know, for all your supposed class you're about as subtle as a dose of the clap, Irene. But then that's maybe not your fault. What could you know about _seduction_? Your _clients_ usually just ring up and make an appointment, don't they?"

A bit vicious, that, but then nothing surprises me anymore. And all the riposte Adler has is, "You'd know."

"Curiosity killed, love. Cat's got nine lives for calling your number. All I'm really saying is that you couldn't have made yourself more _obvious_-"

"You said he had to be able to read me."

"And what's there to be read?" says Danielle, and the cigarette hand trails vile blue smoke up and down Adler's barely clad form. They discuss this one for a while, every physical details. I'll crush it down a bit. Not to be sexist, but just in case there's any men in the audience. Even Moran, and beneath that death-before-surrender exterior flutters the heart of a true friend of Dorothy, was falling asleep. Adler's argument is that everything that needed to be learned of her could have been learned from her stone-set, mirror-black hair, her makeup, her stance and a pair of much-described high heels she seems to have dispensed with somewhere.

Danielle's argument is a quick Google Image search on her phone. And in apparently every picture ever taken of our own dear Whiphand, all of these things are present.

"What were you telling him," is how she phrases it, "That he didn't already know?"

I must say, she's defending herself rather well, so far. I'm sure if Adler was arguing back I'd find it easier to side with her. I can think of lots of things she could say, whether they were true or not. But she's not saying any of them, and in my experience, that means she is faced with a truth she doesn't like. People do that. I hate it, myself; they'll lie and lie and lie a thousand ways. Then, as soon as you put the truth in front of them, rather than just keep lying and help themselves out, they forget how to talk. They make noises, their mouths flap, like aliens mimicking the processes of human speech, but they don't say anything useful anymore.

Damn it, Adler. You're turning into such a fecking disappointment. I hope you know I wanted so much more for us…

"Then what about the 'case-talk'?!" she spits, with the desperation of somebody knowing this is her very last chance. "Didn't you tell me not to be the smartest person in the room? Shall I tell you how he reacted to that, to the simple admission that I knew less than I him, shall I tell you exactly what he said?" Oh dear, love. Never admit to knowing something word for word. No, never tell the opposition that something has scarred you so deeply as to be permanently engrained on your mind. But it has, and she's admitted, and she tells, "_You cater to the whims of the pathetic and take your clothes off to make an impression – stop boring me and think_."

Danielle, looking puzzled, her face a mockery of it, "Look at yourself honestly and tell me what you found so objectionable?"

Adler seethes, gets all puffed up and this time Moran's the one looking like he might have time to fetch popcorn if he's quick. But before this can turn catfight, I shift around, as close as I can get to standing between them without getting up. "Alright, enough of this. Enough. Danielle, you haven't moved your change of clothes out yet, have you?"

Grudgingly, "No."

"Go and leave something out for Miss Adler." I'm sick of telling you how much I hate every look she throws at me, so I can only assume you're sick of hearing it. I won't bother this time. She goes, thank God. Moran follows her. Have a word with him about that after this is over…

Which leaves just me and Miss Adler.

I say, "And your mobile is still in your possession."

"Yes."

"As is Holmes', I'll bet, in one of those pockets. Show me that."

"No." Oh, not you too, Reenie, don't tell me you're catching a case of the Nos too… "I don't see what good it does you, or what that's got to do with you."

And now you're sat out there being really, really thick, aren't you? You're sat out there thinking, oh, now she's gone and done it. Murder time now, and there's poor Dani and Seb tucked away in another room, with not vodka nor Malteasers between them and missing it all. You thick bastards…

Adler, usually the one who does the humiliating, has been humiliated. She needs to go out of here with some small victory. Crushing her entirely wouldn't serve me anymore than her former pride.

And maybe she's right. Maybe Holmes' phone would be… I don't know. Cheating, maybe.

Just testing, checking if we can move on from this, I tell her, "Return the coat, next. Then you need to stay in touch with him. Even if he doesn't respond. This is key. Amuse him. Whether he admits it or not."

Down the hall I hear a door open and gesture for her to go, oh please God go, and get herself dressed.

She must pass them in the hall, but there isn't a word said. And it's Moran who appears first. Looking grim, looking hateful. That's alright; he's only had Mies's side of the story, and we've heartily established she's a lying, manipulative cow. I'll tell him the truth later on and he'll understand. But like I said, he comes in first, and when Danielle comes in she hangs back near the kitchen, like she might just stay out of the way, hide until the worst is over. But that's not going to happen.

"Take off, Danielle." She looks at me, blank, as if she only just caught my voice. "You heard. I don't want you anywhere near this again."

With a shrug, "Fine. I'll stay off it. I'll get Cannes back on, shall I? Get out of the country for a while?"

"You misunderstand, angel. I don't want you anywhere near _this_. All of this. Us. Any use of the word 'us', in fact, no longer includes you. 'Take off' as in leave, as in never come back, as in arrivaderci, adieu. So long, farewell, auf weidersehn, _pet_, goodbye so soon and isn't this a crime..." Don't underestimate how difficult this is for me to say.

She panics. Goes on the defensive, walks right up to me and all on fire and the big wet lip stuck out like that could ever dream of working and says, "You need me."

"I don't think so. I reckon Adler can manage well enough herself."

"I'm not talking about the Adler job."

"Don't be arrogant, Danielle. You've nothing to back it up with."

She looks, then, not at me but at Moran. And tells _him_, "I'm sorry. I can't deal with this." She turns on her heel. She wants to leave, of her own accord. She wants to make it as though I'm not throwing her out. Yeah, well, she's not Adler. She doesn't need a victory to see her off and she's not going to get one either. I follow her, step for step, block the living room door when she steps in to get that _fecking_ coat of hers. I stand a second too long, though, before letting her out. And there at her twisted height, the darkest insult she can think of on her way out the door, she puts her cigarette hand up to the side of my face, and briefly presses her lips to the other.

"Get out," I say. And I'll keep saying it until she gets the message.

By the time she's at the door, Adler is dressed. Has come out to see what's going on. And Danielle, ignoring me _again_, looks past me and tells her, "Holmes has the attention span of the average toddler. Constant contact isn't enough. He forgets _Watson_ from time to time and the man lives there. You need to find a way to stay on his mind, something he can't ignore." Shrugs again, "Just a tip."

Then the door closes behind her.


	10. Chapter 10

Moran understands. Once I put it to him, he is more than sympathetic. I told you he would be. Moran is loyal. And he understands loyalty, the two-way processes of it, that if one expects everything of another person, one must be ready to give everything back. You see, you might be surprised; I know you see me falling effortlessly out of one social situation into another all the time, but I don't actually form relationships all that easily. The power balance gets to me. I back away from them very quickly. It's not a personal deficiency, you understand, but it's how you go about protecting yourself in this world.

And, yes, more specifically, in my particular milieu it's especially important.

People in the real world, maybe they get their heart broken. Up where I live, there's a real man in Holland who, and this is no word of a lie, will flay the flesh from your chest and cut away enough of your ribs so you can see the thing tumb-tumb up at you. I'm told it's very disconcerting, like when an old VHS gets out of sync; you feel your pulse in your ears when you scream and it's actually a millisecond behind your heart tumb-tumbing. What I mean, even my most casual attachments could get me killed.

You appreciate, then, don't you, when you're being smart and agreeing with me, that I have to be careful just who exactly I admit into my life. I've been careful since I was a child and I'm very good at it. Look at Moran. Prime example. Chose him well, didn't I? And here he is, still by my side, standing with me in this darkest of hours. Well done, Sebastian, and well done me for spotting you when you appeared.

So imagine, if you will, if you _can_, if your limited imaginations have this much empathy within them, what it would be like to be so careful, to do so very well, to last so very many years with no major car-crash events… A few bumps along the road, yes. A con artist called Evie Fairchild tried to pull a fast one, once. Sebastian lifted her by the throat, walked her over the edge of a cathedral balcony in Prague and then let go. She lived. She's in the wheelchair, though. So Evie was a bump. Milverton, too, that whole story is something of a bump. He's useful, so I keep him, but I keep him at arm's length.

Oh, and there's the Paris story. Paris was nearly a car crash. But they say it, don't they, I've said it myself, that thing that they sing, I get by with a little help from my friends. I had somebody with me in Paris, and that kept it from being a complete A-bomb. And, like an A-bomb, probably the end of everything as far as I was concerned.

I don't know, when somebody helps pull you through a situation like that, and when you do the same for them, when two people live through an experience like that (suffice to say, death was left feeling more than a bit cheated that week), you'd think you'd have gotten to know them by then. You'd think, once you've got through that, that's it. Like, in the years that followed, if you found yourself suddenly poisoned, slowly gassed in your own flat, even if something did trick you into believing you'd gone mad, you would never, ever suspect that person.

Imagine doing so well all those years and then having to face up to _that_.

It's a heinous betrayal at the best of times. You can't help but agree with me on that one, because it's just true. But to somebody like _me_…

So Moran helps me move enough of my belongings to the Richmond house that I can work from there. It's too big for just me, really, and a bit cold, but I'm just not comfortable around the flat anymore. See, it's booby-trapped. Yeah, there are ammonia pellets in the U-bends of the sinks. So anytime one might want to scrub the place clean, oh, very possibly using bleach, that releases chlorine. That's how she was doing it. I figured this out. That detective's rubbing off on me, I'll tell you that.

Ah, you say, but what about the jacket? You'll think I'm paranoid if I can't explain why my suit jacket had that smell to it too. You'll think I'm losing it. That was the beauty of it; I wish she'd just _told_ me about it. We could have done it to anybody, it didn't have to be me. Because it's foolproof, when you think about it. See, before I wear a suit I'll hang it on the back of the bathroom door when I'm having a shower, and the steam drops any creases out of it, gets rid of the musty storage smell. See? All she would have had to do was run a little bleach around the plughole, that washes down, and the chlorine smell gets in the steam and gets in everything. Including me, in my lungs. I don't feel well, you know.

So there you have it, all stitched up, just like I would have been only I'm far too smart for that. She knew that. Knew she was caught. That's why she took it out on Reenie. Sabotaging the job even then. Which is just ridiculous, I mean, just stupid, because this is running now, and there's really nobody with any way of stopping it, except maybeme, and I don't want to, except maybe Mycroft Holmes, and he doesn't know enough to do anything about it, do you see? It's foolproof, it's launched, and it was designed with no brakes and there will be no breaks and no breakages. It's all just running now.

That's why it's so important I have somewhere safe to work. Hence the Richmond place. So we're in the car, me and Moran, and it's after dark so the nearby neighbours won't be thinking of us. All well planned, all good. Safe with Moran.

I make him stop at the river. It's okay, it's dark. Nobody's going to see. And I reach down between my feet to the laptop bag, and there's a book sticking out of the back, and that's what I pick up.

"What is that?" he asks. Maybe because I forgot it at first and we had to go back. No, that's a lie; I was leaving it behind, intentionally, and then I had a better idea.

I never told him. Never told you either, did I, my pretties, never told about my present. Remember? I was brought a present, by a fading face, a lost name, a present out of my homeland. Except not really, because it's German originally.

It's a heavy old tome, in a leather cover, with gilded title and author, with an embossed and gilded image of a comatose princess in a glass coffin. Grimm's Fairy Tales. Poisoned apples and spinning wheels. There's bloody nerve for you, anyway.

Says me, "What's this?"

Says her, "A beautiful edition?"

"Absolutely," says me, "But why?"

Says her, "Homework."

Says me, "Beg your pardon?"

"Read," says her, "Study. Learn what a happily-ever-after looks like when it's biting you in the arse…"

But I'm forgetting all of that, and quite happy to. This is why we had to go back for it. This is why I made Moran stop at the river. It's going in. It'll get swallowed by a frog and spat up at some illiterate, council-estate princess down at the estuary end. There's your fairy tale. Take it or fucking leave it.

Moran sees what I'm planning and takes it out of my hand. Out and _away_ from me, tucking it down next to his chair. I don't have _anything_ to say to that one. If he starts and all, I don't know what I'll do, where I'll end up. Drifting down the estuary end with that frog. There's a story about that, isn't there? About a frog helping a scorpion cross the river, and what a scorpion does, can't help but do, on the other side. Moran says, "Don't bother."

Can't be bothered arguing with him. "Well, see that she gets it back, then. Ask her how she likes her happily-ever-after."

So we leave the river then. I've got a feeling he's taking a longer route than strictly necessary to avoid it. That's alright. This isn't such a very important night. Actually, all messy interpersonal situations aside, today went really bloody well, actually. I haven't really had time to appreciate that, so I appreciate it now, while there's fuck all else to do; Moran's gone all quiet and the radio's shite. When you look at it, everything I told Adler was right. She's alive and still in possession of her leverage, Bigger Holmes hates her and Little Holmes is very likely well on his way to a maintainable level of obsession with her. A victory. Actually, a double victory; in certain African tribes, the biggest parties are held when one of the tribesmen catches and kills the most lethal sort of local snake. They celebrate the carcass for a while before carrying it out of the village and dumping it beyond ceremonial boundaries, then burn it. Not only is it a symbolic rejection of all the fear and paranoia a snake like that brings, but it's supposed to cure anybody who's already sick from a bite.

Complete bollocks, the same mythic root as your standard Dracula story, but you have to admire their dedication to it.

Yeah. Good day, all over. And it gets better when I remember, all of a sudden, we're in a car, we're on the move. Don't start, don't look at me like that, I'm not stupid or mad, I hadn't _forgotten_ we were in a car. I just hadn't really thought it through, and now that it strikes me, I know exactly what that means. Oh yes, yes I do. Because when we're moving, and moving quite fast after all, and when we're no place in particular the way we are right now, these are the only circumstances under which I can get in touch with a friend of mine. Oh, a friend, yes, the old spud, my bestest mucker in all the world, His Lankyness, that long tall drink of twat half-running this country, the one that looks like a Swedish taxidermist.

Between the movement and the positioning and naturally the scrambled signal, our own dear Mycroft can't trace my phone with any accuracy right now. This is nice. This'll make me feel _even_ better than I'm already starting to. This is lovely, so I take my time over it, compose a message with the right balance of respect and irreverence. It is, for those who are interested, two parts of one to ninety-eight of the other. I'll leave it to you to guess which way round those go. I know it's ready when I read it out to Moran and he laughs.

_How does it feel to get bent over for once?_

I send it. And then I make Moran stop again, less planned this time, bit more spontaneous, a bit louder, but you can't blame me. Oh, you wouldn't blame me. If you'd seen it.

A light came on in the darkness, and that's not even a metaphor. I sent it, and something flashed blue, far away on the side of the road.

This is a narrow road, just where London starts to turn into country, where there's no such thing as a residential street, but mansions cluster as tight as their grounds will allow, like animals herding for safety. And over there in the dark, through a line of hedges, there was a blue light.

It's not right, it can't be possible. Years I've worked to find out where… But it couldn't be, could it?

This time Moran doesn't know enough to hold me back. I get out and stand where I can see between the branches. Very quickly, I send another message.

_I'd hide that umbrella next time she shows up_.

And another blue light. Maybe, or I'm imagining it, the edge of a face lit up in it. Whatever he sees, Moran sees the light. He grabs my arm, trying to pull me away, but he doesn't understand. How many years have I been trying to find Mycroft Holmes _at_ home and now… and now… It's almost not possible. Almost. And yet it's happened.

Two is a coincidence. Three would be… perfect.

_Hiya_.

And yes, a third glow, a flare of bluish light. "Moran, let go. Let go! Do you not see it? There are signs and then there are great big billboards strung with lights and the ground all ranked with dancing girls. This is equivalent to lightning striking down from heaven and-"

"Fuck's sake, keep it down," he hisses.

"Why? Do you not get it? Things like this don't happen when you're in the wrong. Sinners don't get miracles, do you not _get it_?!" I look away from him, back across, the dark outline of a house just resolving itself out of general gloom, and he's there, in there, that's where he lives, after all this, that's where he lives. He can't do anything about me because he knows nothing for sure, and all suspicion will make him do is warn Junior off the whole shebang, and that'll only make Junior more determined to stay in it. Glory Alleluia, oh choirs of angels, we're here, this is it, it's where he _lives_.

The Palace.

Caesar.

This is my river. This is my river right here, this is where I let it all go and everything changes. This is everything, right here. Caesar. I was thinking of him earlier, but this morning was so long ago, and I forget why… Caesar, and the river, and I ask myself, if I were Caesar, and standing at my Rubicon, and hereafter there would be no return, if I were Caesar, what would I say?

Something brief, before Moran decides just to lift me and throw me back in the car.

Something that fecking says it all…

"Ready or not, Mycroft… Ready or not, here I fucking come…"


	11. Chapter 11

Now, bear with me; what I'm about to open with will sound completely nonsensical. In fact, as you read what follows on, my explanation, you'll be so stumped as to where it fits in you'll actually forget about it. But later on I'll say something, innocuous in the context of the explanation, but this, suddenly, lightbulb-over-the-head will come back to you. And a sense of dread too, more than likely.

The thing I will say is this: _generally_ I am not in the habit of bugging my friends' belongings.

The story, then, is as follows.

We were watching Adler's Twitter followers. Not forty minutes after the drugs could have worn off, here's a brand new account with no details and following only my own darling Whiphand. So, with Sherlock's continued interest in her confirmed, and I heard that text alert she set up for herself, we packed her off to play the long tease far from me. It seemed too much trouble even to have her in London, where she might be stopped or spotted, where the red-tops would still be after her. I didn't want him getting any excuse to go after her before I wanted him too.

She's stashed in a country pile I've been keeping out of the red for a year or two now. They don't ask where the money comes from and in return I get to use it for visiting associates, the occasional prisoner and _very_ occasional weekends away. Rest assured, Adler is being kept very much as a holidaymaker, not somebody who has annoyed me. It's expensive, yeah, but totally worth it.

The things I do for my Holmeses…

Of course, she's still going about her business. _Not_ at my country pile, thank you very much… But when she's travelling she lets me know where she's going. At first I thought it was only because she wanted me to send her _protection_ with her. But there's a night in November, I get a message through:

_Bored in Egypt_. _Help?_

- _Text Holmes_

_Already did. Getting really very hungry._

- _Try the mashi hamam_

_You're not a gentleman_

Which felt like about the right place to leave that conversation. I'll admit, it bothered me for a while, why she'd say something like that, a _personal_ interaction. What would she have done if I'd said, 'Yeah, alright, you're only young once' and jumped on a plane? It bothered me. And I thought of _everything_, from the lowest sort of blackmail ('So', I imagined her purring across an otherwise faultless dinner, 'where are we on the Holmes job?') to the lowest sort of humanity (and I won't tell you what I could half-hear her purring on that one. Trying to _forget_…)

It was in that last possibility that I found the answer. That and her inestimably handy online presence again.

The internet's great. I'm sure I've told you that before. But it really is. See, people say too much, and then they try to cover up by holding back the telltale details. But what they don't say tells you just as much.

There was no Kate anymore. No Juliet. No Mirielle. All out of girlfriends, only leaving her private hotel for work. Irene was lonely. She texted me because she was all by her sole and singular and the only thing she wanted was still a ways away. And that is a hard, hard life to lead, and I knew that. I _know_ that. I know it very well.

I was on my own too. And feeling a little bit… uninspired, might be the word. Moving out to the Richmond place had had its advantages; I could breathe again, for one thing, without that terrible mustard-gas burn in my lungs. The headaches had stopped. But Sebastian wasn't making it out very often. I'd put him on a job and he'd come to talk it over and he'd come back when it was finished, but that was mostly it. Just business. There's a farmer just outside York, or there was, who had absolutely nothing to do with domestic terrorism and the old-style fertilizer bomb, but I told Moran he did, and now the man's dead. Because I was on my own.

So, like a gentleman would, and I am reliably informed that the devil is, in fact, a gentleman, I took Adler to dinner last night. In Barcelona, so she wouldn't be recognized and nobody would be watching. Is that better or worse, from the female perspective? I could rephrase it, I suppose. I could make it a bit less 'hid her out of the country' and a bit more 'went to great lengths to respect her privacy'. Which one of those would even be false?

And please, hold all potential gushing over what a lovely person I clearly am at heart until you hear the best bit – in order that she might fully enjoy said evening of social oasis in those long desert months, unpunctuated otherwise but by texts that received no answers, I forbade her from discussing business, mine or hers.

Wow… you really can make things sound better with careful phrasing… I'm not comfortable with half-truth, though. So here's the unexpurgated version; I didn't want her asking anything I couldn't answer.

Don't get me wrong, it wasn't… _crime_-block or anything. I knew exactly what needed to be done. Take one Sherlock, remove Woman, introduce Phone, probably do this when he's already weak and even more distanced from the ordinary world than usual, i.e. at Christmas. But the exact mechanics were eluding me, just then. It was fine. I wasn't worried. I still had three weeks until Christmas, Adler had been given 'Christmas' and because she had a date, she'd backed off. No pressure, no major time limit. It would come to me, it just hadn't yet. It was definitely going to come to me.

Still; I didn't want her asking about it, thinking I was useless.

Just a nice quiet evening, no business involved. Not so much to ask, I thought, and really she did very well. So did I. We both stuck to it. Well, nearly. We talked about Sherlock, a little bit. But that wasn't really business. That was just for fun. Of course it was just as dessert arrived to the table she chose to tell me what 'dinner' was her new euphemism for.

Then, "Are you blushing, James?"

"No, I no longer have reflexes. So tell me this, has he shown any signs of hunger?"

"Please. I'm depending on _you_ for assurance he's even still alive."

"He is."

"Thank you."

She smiled, and it was maybe four minutes before we regressed totally to adolescents, and I felt comfortable, finally, to say, "Text him now."

Well up for it, in a heartbeat and an eyeblink, "What should I say? 'I've just eaten, let's have dinner'?"

"Do you not know it's rude to flirt with somebody you didn't come in with? And who isn't even in the country?"

"Who said anything about flirting? That was, is always, an out-and-out proposition."

"Then flirt," I said. "I can take the hit."

"Very brave." She took a moment to compose (both self and message), and then simply sends. "There. All done."

"What did it say?"

Adler pouted, put on a show; "That would be cheating." Then handed me her phone before I had to ask again.

_Met somebody more fascinating than you. Kindly don't call this number again_.

I knew better than to get all proud and egotistical. Well, okay, little bit. A totally moderate level of pride, and any egotism was of the very self-aware kind that doesn't really count. Now, if I had committed this to memory, taken it into my heart and carried it home with me and written it down in the back of the notebook I keep in the bedside drawer, then we'd be having problems, but none of that happened.

You'll have to forgive me; this true-false-half-true thing is getting to me. I do it every day, but I'm not sure I've ever sat back and looked at it before. It's just bizarre, how different you can make things sound and be saying exactly the same thing. It's really bugging me today…

For instance: okay, so I wrote it down. I wrote it down in the middle of the night because I woke up thinking about it.

Now that sounds _filthy_. But that's not what happened. It woke me up because I realized it was my only problem.

Christmas, I could do. The phone, I could have walked up and put that in his hand. The only thing giving me trouble was Adler herself; how to remove the woman so thoroughly from Holmes' life that he would never chase, and never even think, and make the phone the only thing there was. He was attached to her now. Whether he ever responded or not, she knew this, or she would never have dared send that text, to joke with him like that.

My only problem.

It's quite funny actually; it was late last night before I reached this conclusion. But it was right there and then in the restaurant that I actually solved it.

The evening was drawing in, and I was walking her back to her hotel, and I said, "You're flying back with me, aren't you?"

"Absolutely," she said. "I-Player just isn't the same as watching it _live_."

I didn't need to ask what she was talking about. We'd both heard about who'd be making a special guest appearance on _Crimewatch_, Thursday night.

And then she remembered something and said, with the casual invitation of three fine wines, "Oh, and come down to the country with me before you go back. I was packing for tonight and came across this _awful_ blue wool number…"

It's a shame to admit it, but in the interests of absolute honesty, my immediate and unspoken reaction was 'It's not awful, it's Donna Karen and it's just made for a different body to yours'. But then I remembered myself, shook my head and told her, "I'm… no longer associated, with Miss Mies. Come up to the city, return it yourself."

"You think I'd be safe in the city?" she said. For a half a second, her hand edged in to hold my arm. It wasn't her fault she didn't understand when I stepped away.

I said, "Absolutely you will."

For her reassurance, for the sake of her well-hidden nerves, I went down to the country with her from Heathrow. And, though I am not _generally_ in the habit of bugging my friends' belongings, Irene is only really the messenger. The sweater and jeans are borrowed, and don't belong to her, and therefore don't exactly count as a friend's belongings.

So that's what I'm doing now, is waiting again. This time I'm listening to the rustle of a canvas bag, to the shuffle and engine noise of a brief cab ride, to high heels climbing the stairs to the third floor lofts of a mews near Camden Town. Listening to a door get knocked, and a dull sound of music beyond it. There's always music. It doesn't matter when you go over there, there's always music. I don't know how she can stand it sometimes…

Anyway, there's a sound of the door opening.

Then a voice I've done very well at not hearing. If there was a prize for cutting somebody out of your life, I have only _just_ thrown it away. A voice saying, "Miss Adler," somewhere between surprise and disdain, "To what do I owe the dubious and unexpected pleasure?" A pause, a rustling, and then, "Oh, and _won't_ you _please_ come right on in?!

"I don't want to talk on the landing."

"And I don't want to talk, so we should be alright there." Sarky mare… At least it's not just me she thinks she can talk to that way.

Adler, with gravitas, with the utmost dignity, says, "I brought your clothes back, with my apologies; your trousers might be a little stretched."

"Mmh… You do have rather more in the arse-department than strictly necessary."

Oh, please God no, don't sit and bitch at each other, please, no. Just leave the clothes and go, Reenie, come on, love, hear a man's prayer why don't you, just plant the bug and get out of that fetid witch's hovel…

But she doesn't. No, she doesn't stop, doesn't just drop it and leave, which is all Mies really deserves. She drops the bag, I hear the thud, but she stays right where she is and says, sharp, loudly, "What do you want from me? And _what_ have you gotten me into?"

Sorry, Irene, love, is that meaning me? When did the conversation get to be about me?

Danielle says, "Aren't you happy? It would be a shame if you weren't. Somebody ought to be."

Adler's old complaint, the one I had thought forgotten, "This is taking forever."

"But he's doing it right. Believe me, Miss Adler, you want it done right. No, darling, trust me, you are about the only person getting a good deal out of this-"

"_You_ were the one who brought me in!" Adler cries.

I can't quite make sense of that, right away. Well, I know what I _think_ it means, the first conclusion I jumped too, I know that, but… But let's just give the girls a second, maybe they'll explain themselves, hm? Maybe I don't have to go over there and start redecorating Dani's place with various parts of their anatomies. No. That first thing I thought, that couldn't be what's happening here. No, we'll just wait them out.

In answer to Adler's accusation, Danielle takes her time, composes herself. Then, "You were only ever a Plan B." Which could still mean anything. It really could. She says something else, soft and drowned in the music. Thank God I'm recording; roll it back, dial it up, scale down the background noise to catch; "If I'd known how much worse you would make things, I would have happily let them all blow each other to kingdom come at that damned swimming pool."

Perfect timing. Shatter the moment. And I could have sworn I turned my phone off, but then again, right before I left the flat there was a thief brushing down my jacket, wasn't there? A thief who, as I have since discovered, had her own plans for that evening. And such perfect timing, Miss Adler.

Oh dear God…

I reach for my mobile, and then decide against it. Tainted, traitorous little thing, I want a Galaxy anyway, maybe I'll change it tomorrow… No, I leave the recording running and go into the hall, to the landline. Moran picks up on the fourth or fifth ring.

"Hello?"

"Get out here. It's important. I wouldn't call if it wasn't." I've solved the problem, see? The problem was really solved last night, when Adler mentioned the clothes

And him, because he's loyal and he knows who he's dealing with and has some appreciation for that, he says, "Okay," and hangs up. Good lad, Moran. Useful, too…

I wander back down the hall and, rather than go in, rather than go back near it, I just stay in the doorway. And look over, listening to things that are very far away from me. Heel clicks, a slamming door. More rustling as the clothes are taken out of the bag and the sound gets clearer, and the rasp of a cigarette lighter, two and three times, fumbled in shaking hands.

And the sound, not entirely unpleasant, of that cancerous fecking bitch crying her blackened heart out over a man she can't have and who I am systematically, step-by-step destroying. It's the most satisfaction I've had in weeks.


	12. Chapter 12

We'll skip a lot of talk and recriminations and go straight to Christmas. I am, again, alone. Don't worry about me, though; there's no need for that. It's a better sort of alone than before.

Moran went home for the holidays for once. Don't ask me why. They all hate him and they think he's still in the army and they don't know he prefers the company of gentlemen and they all still call him _Jonathan_… There's a whole long story there, why he's called Sebastian now but what I'm telling you, the point I'm trying to make, his family don't know that. They don't know _him_ anymore.

And who'll be waiting for him, the day after Boxing Day, when they send him back shattered and bruised and a shadow of his former self? Who'll be waiting with stuffing sandwiches and good whiskey? Yeah, you're fucking right…

I tried to tell him all this, but he was adamant, this year. "Nah, nah, always let you talk me out of it, years since I've seen them," blah, blah, woof, woof, meh. Whatever he wants. I'm looking a quiet one anyway. So he's popped off to his Liverpool home (insert lyrics gag here – that town's too easy to take the mick out of), leaving me alone. Adler's going into an even deeper seclusion than before. She is (altogether now!) not happy about it, but I've told her it's only for a week. Milverton's in America. And, though I do rather frequently walk that road behind his house when I'm having trouble sleeping, I dismissed the idea of approaching Mycroft, see if he wanted to split a turkey crown. I never meant the full-blown, Great-Escape-Gruffalo-Doctor-Who, paper hat bit, but I need somebody else for the excuse to cook.

Ah, I'll skip to the sandwiches. The sandwiches are the best bit anyway.

It's Christmas Eve. They're having a bit of a do at Baker Street. Watson's put that together, I'll bet. Doing the fussy hostess bit, bless his heart.

For a second I can see Sherlock from the street. Drifting over by the window, the violin straining to be heard. 'We Wish You A Merry Christmas'. Well, that's decent of you, mate. I appreciate that, I honestly do.

I think violins always sound like they're crying, don't you? Sort of mournful like that. Hard to make a violin laugh. Banjos laugh. But violins, whatever they say, they say it crying.

But I've stood here too long thinking all of this. I have a few things still to get done tonight. And anyway, there's snow on the ground. I'll catch my _death_.

I trigger Irene, so she can direct him to the phone. It was planted earlier today. In plain sight, right there on the fireplace. That, and Watson fussing, and Sherlock probably doing his best to ignore him, hopefully it's gone unnoticed. And do you know, I had my _pick_ of people to do the planting, once I went through the old listings. Oh yeah; I've got tonnes of sneaky types that can pick a lock and leave unseen. Funny the way things happen, the habits you form, and you just use the same ones over and over again… But yeah, there were _loads_ to choose from.

Anyway, in the interests of goodwill to all men and suitably arresting ladies, I'll presume Irene sends that message before she calls me. "You shouldn't be using your number," I tell her. "Radio silence, here on out."

"I thought you'd be flattered, hearing my last words."

"Oh, go on, then."

"Merry Christmas."

"Not the most original dying mutter I've ever heard, but it'll do."

"You're _supposed_ to say it back," she tells me. Defiant even now, still thinking she's got a script and a show to run.

"Merry Christmas, Irene. And I'll see you before the Happy New Year."

"You'd better. Time goes very slowly when you're dead."

"Oh, you'll find some way to amuse yourself, I'm sure…"

"Any suggestions?"

"Send flowers to your family. Put my name on them. Sleep tight, dear; you're my best ever corpse."

Though not quite my favourite.

That's the other thing I have to get done, before Sherlock mobilizes Big Brother and Mycroft mobilizes the troops. Goodwill, as I said, to all men and suitably arresting ladies. Christmas is that night, isn't it? Miracles in stables, peace on earth, Scrooge winds his neck in, all that stuff, all that shite, isn't it? Christmas is just the right time, then, to visit a former friend, and for us to look forward together to the day when I meet her in hell. Having lived and died between now and then, there'll be no point in staying angry, and maybe we'll have time to swap notes on the afterlife before the forces of Satan snatch us apart to be tormented in our appropriate circles. Me, wherever they see fit to dump me (I imagine they'll have to set up some sort of rotation, given I so totally defy categorization), and her in the mouth of the Beast himself with the other traitors.

But none of that talk tonight. I was raised better than to speak ill of people in Danielle's position.

I had hoped I'd be able to beat the Holmeses to the hospital, and I think I'm making it. My cab is just ahead of Molly Hooper's. Looking lovely, too, I must say. Never dressed up like that for me, I can tell you. That's what gives me time. She goes to get changed, and steady her nerves, and wash her face. Other than that, the morgue is practically unattended on Christmas Eve.

I don't really understand that. The family waiting in the corridor for any sort of news are testament to the fact that Death, long may he live to serve and be served, has no concept of public holidays.

But again, whatever, fine, gift horses, mouths… It's a cruel thing, but it works in my favour, doesn't it? Like spotting Mycroft that night, I suppose… Feels like a long time ago now. Feels like I got a bit carried away, really. His address isn't exactly information I intend to use in any way. But I remember very clearly a feeling of joy, of _benediction_. Something higher smiling on me for the first time since… For the first time, maybe. And when that happens, you have to recognize it. You have to look at that and hear Fate egging you on like a racehorse, _go on, y'good thing ye_, oh yes… You have to recognize it when it comes. Gift horses, James, mouths. Shame on me.

The glorious, meant-for-me absence of an attendant lets me walk straight through to the room of drawers. The cooler, I've heard them calling it. Steel pigeonholes with bodies inside them, and a list near the door that tells you who lives at what number.

Number twenty-two is the only Jane Doe brought in today, at eight-thirty. Tagged and bagged, yet to be hacked up. Twenty-two is right at waist level too, perfect access. Twenty-two was Danielle Mies' age of consent; nothing under the age of twenty-two, unless it was work (which was rare) or irresistible (which was rarer) or she was too drunk to properly judge (which was not especially rare). Lot of exceptions. I don't hold it against her. The life she led, and I lead, 'adaptable' really has to be the watchword.

Moran did it for me. I told him I understood if he didn't want to, I'd give the job to somebody else. Once he knew the full story, the incredible truth, that Danielle had been working against us both since Greenwich, that she _admitted_ she would have let us all die at the pool rather than do it again, he saw where I was coming from. She _told_ Irene to interrupt.

Danielle Mies took the victory away from us, deliberately, intentionally, meticulously plan-B-ed…

But I was being a good boss; they've known each other a very long time. Naturally I knew it would be difficult for him. At the end of it all, he was _insisting_ he take care of it personally.

Nobody else, he said.

He took care of everything. I appreciated that; after all, it was difficult for me too, after all we'd been through. I've adopted Tesla, by the way, so don't go worrying about the cat gnawing at the abandoned corpse. Anyway, he did the thing itself just this evening, before he went to catch his train.

I yank down the handle of door twenty-two, wheel the tray out as far as the head and draw back the sheet. There's no face; the back of the skull is just a bowl for the rest. But there's enough glossy black hair still clinging to the pieces to tell me I've probably got the right one, so I bring her the rest of the way out.

There are two reasons for my visit tonight. Firstly, to check that the job has been done and done to the level it needs to be. For instance, there are no teeth amongst the mess of the head. The fingerprints have been seared pink and flat. The body shape is right. Miss Mies' comfort eating came in useful after all; she developed that arse she'd always been after.

Secondly, to check that she's dead.

For this, I have to tip her up, just an inch or two, just at the left shoulder. I was actually quite worried about this; Danielle has a tattoo, had… has, I suppose, it's still on her, anyway, it's two lines of Chinese dropping down her back. Never did ask her what it says. Knowing her? Well, let me think…

'Confucius, he say, Have you heard the one about the bishop and the actress?'

In the end, this second reason, this need to have her put out, glitter off existence like a star from a million years ago, won out. Holmes won't ask them to turn her over. The only one that sees it will be the coroner, will be sweet, delicate Molly Hooper, who neither knows nor cares that Irene doesn't have any of this terribly trashy skin art upon her person, and certainly won't mention it to the man she cares so much about and who will be so very cut up. No, I decided in the end that this was a minimal risk.

So I tip up the body, and peer beneath, and there it is. Whatever it says.

Maybe, 'He who seeks hidden money will find it, if he is also a thief.'

Or, 'Regret not the dead flower; it will bear fruit.' This was the best I could do for Danielle. This way, her death has purpose. She protects Adler, and keeps the whole job running. Without her, this whole stage falls apart. Then, natural as butterfly wings, meticulous as dominoes, the rest just all comes down. Well done, love. This is a good death. Didn't you say it, didn't you tell me, all you've ever done was stand by me? Well, you got to prove it in the end. Thank you, and you're welcome.

Here's another proverb for you.

No, sorry, this one's an epitaph. I saw it on a grave near Munich. There's enough truth in it to be a proverb. _Ich bin im tod erbluht_. 'In death have I blossomed'. If it was up to me I'd have that on another headstone, soon enough, but I suppose Adler's people get to make that decision. I'll put it on the card, with the flowers. Is that insensitive, putting the word 'blossomed' on flowers? Is that taking the piss? Or is that poetic? I always have so much trouble between those two…

More to the point, why do I care? I shouldn't still be standing here. Molly, from how it looks, is having a rough enough night without walking in and finding me. So I cover Dani's face again, and say, "Night, love," and close her back in her little steel Smarties tube.

Remember those old ads, 'Only Smarties have the answer'?

Do you think I've run out of platitudes if I'm resorting to Chinese proverbs, epitaphs and advertising slogans? I wonder if that means I'm not on the borderlines of losing it anymore. Maybe now, this deep into the game, with this sort of a commitment on the table… It's like even _my_ mind has a place where it just says, 'Yeah, fuck it, we're done here, do what thou wilt, Jim. Take it away, old son, pick that shit up and run with it.'

To which my natural response is, Well, if I insist.

But again, I've spent too long thinking all of this, and my escape this time is much narrower than it was from the snow at Baker Street. I push out through the doors and immediately have to turn my back, because two familiarly skinny shadows are approaching the end of the corridor.

Luckily – _no_, thanks to whatever power is keeping so close an eye on me, the next door is unlocked, and I can duck quietly inside before they get to where they can see me. Right next door to the room with the slabs, and big windows between the door. Molly Hooper is just coming in at the rear door, and walking direct to box twenty-two, and she is just bringing the Adler Dani out for inspection when the Holmes boys arrive in tandem.

I can't hear them through the glass, and I can't stand and watch, exactly. But I catch a blurry outline in a computer monitor. I won't stay for the autopsy or anything like that, that thought never crossed my mind, thank you very much, but I'll stay to check they don't turn her over. That's only sensible, now that this opportunity has been foisted upon me.

There's not a lot to it, I suppose. Obviously the face tells him nothing, except that he probably develops a sudden and very clear memory of the last thing he ate. Then he has her roll back the rest of the sheet and I'm really glad that the body type matches all of a sudden. And then he leaves, abandoning my sweet, lovely Molly with Mycroft. I edge a little closer to that screen to get a better image of them. She looks dwarfed and so… beaten down, almost. There's probably more to it all that I don't know, but even at this, I'm annoyed.

She is an excellent person. Even if she did dump me. Actually, that probably counts in her favour. That's all I really want to say on the matter of Molly Hooper.

Anyway, Mycroft follows his brother into the hall, and I edge back to the door, ease it open just very, very slightly, just enough that the tail of my coat will hold it that way and I, unseen, overhear.

It's an odd conversation, to my ears. Lots of loaded talk about cigarettes, a morgue joke… They're not so unreasonable, are they, so detached, that one can't just say he's sorry for the other's loss? Are they?

Apparently so, because they jump right on to the business after that; "How did you know she was dead?" says Mycroft, and I can tell you, my dears, my pretties, my most excellent, excellent friends, his thoughts are already with me.

Sherlock replies, as careful and delicate as may become a man, "She had an item in her possession, one she said her life depended on. She chose to give it up." It's the hollowness of the phrasing, the low, nicotine warm tone of his voice. I'll be honest, and I won't be ashamed, my heart breaks for him, it really does…

And massive thanks, by the way, to Sherlock himself, for letting me know right away that I've done my job and he understands perfectly what I set up to tell him. I'll sleep easier.

Oh, but now, finally, thank _God _because I really was worried about them, now we come the closest they're going to get to emotionality. That family I passed on the way in, apparently the news wasn't good. So rather than answer when Big Brother (in all senses of the term) tries to get his slick little mitts on Reenie's phone, Sherlock turns and looks at them. "They all _care_ so much," is how he puts it. And then, unable to resist a dig I suppose, he asks, "Do you ever think there's something wrong with us?"

Not really. There was a time, maybe, when it used to sneak up on me every so often. Like, when you're lying in bed at night, and just about to fall asleep and then, like gremlins, like a dream of falling, there it is; a nasty little voice telling you it doesn't matter what you do or how smart you are, your efficiency, your ruthlessness, your guile, none of it matters, because you're a shite human being.

But like I say, it's been a while. I wouldn't worry about, mate. I think you're probably doing the best you can for yourself, just the way you are.

"All lives end, all hearts are broken. Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."

He knows. Mycroft, I mean. And I _don't_ mean about the workings of the inhuman heart. I mean he _knows_. Knows everything. Adler's death is, I'm sure, an enormous relief to him. Between my teasing and his own nose for these things, he knows everything. And I'm sure he must think it's over. After all, he's just seen her with her face bashed in. Yeah, Mycroft's out there hiding the fact that inside he's dancing, putting that umbrella to good use along with a beaming smile and a rainy day for his best Gene Kelly impression, because Irene Adler is dead on a slab and he's a free man again.

Good. Enjoy it, old bean. I'll see you again in another lot of months.


	13. Chapter 13

The day before New Year's Eve, I brave the snow and head down to the country. Time to pick up the dead woman who has had the courtesy not to be dead.

She's walked down from the house to meet me at the road. Mostly it's to show where the drive actually starts. She's startling, on all that white, a sudden shape in a heavy black coat. She is, as always, the impeccable Irene… Something about her, though… I think the holiday has been good for her. She looks relaxed. Maybe that's what happens when you don't have a session nearly every day where you have to pretend another human being belongs to a lesser species. But that's just a guess; I wouldn't know, for a fact.

I tell her, straight off, when she gets in at the passenger side, "You're looking better than the last time I saw you."

Adler rolls her eyes, brushes snow off her shoulders, "How did I know you'd open with a corpse joke?"

She assumed that. That's not really what I meant, not at all. But I don't see any point in correcting her, do you? "Seriously. How are you coping?"

"I'm alright," she said, and it's like I told you, she means it. Feels it. "And you?"

"Yeah, same." That's a lie. The truth isn't something she needs to know, but it's important to me, it helps _me_, just to think to myself after I've said it that it's a lie. I'm acknowledging it, so I can't be accused of pretending any otherwise.

"And our mutual friend?" One's dead, one's AWOL in the wake of the murder, one's broken-hearted and one of them's Mycroft. One way or another I've got some awful news for her. She's going to have to be more specific. "_His Majesty_," she says trying to use the lingo. But still… You see my problem, don't you? And eventually, so does Irene. "His Majesty the Crown Prince."

"Broken-hearted, by all accounts. Thinks of nothing but you unless he's thinking about your mobile. The violin is driving the people next door loopy. There's a rumour, unconfirmed as yet, that shots were fired. No casualties reported from that. No casualties total, or none that make the radar."

"Well, that's _something_," she spits. It is sarcastic and brutal. Again, she is not taking things the way they were meant. That wasn't a joke. In the wake of her disappearance, on my side or theirs, there might well have been casualties of all sorts. Name me a player and I'll tell you how they could have been taken out of the game since Christmas Eve. I'm trying to be comforting (which, come on now, let's be open with each other, we all know it's not an effort oft made on my part) and she's snapping at me.

I'm not _hurt_ or anything ridiculous like that. I'm just going to shut up, for lack of any sort of appreciation.

But she doesn't _need_ me to talk, apparently, goes right on ahead with further snapping completely unprovoked. "This was too long," she says. "It was never my idea that he care about me, but given that was where we found ourselves, where _you_ put us, I never should have allowed this to go ahead. This was too long. Allowing somebody to believe that you're dead is… is _cruel_."

"I'll take your word for it. After all, it's your specialist subject."

"For heaven's sake," she snarls at me, quiet, "_do_ shut up."

I can explain this; she's forgotten who's driving this bloody car, and just how far from London we still are. If I didn't care so much how she performs her resurrection tomorrow, I'd pull over and make her walk. See how she likes playing the whole scene with a cold. Or pneumonia. Hypothermia. Frostbite. How do people always _forget_ , so very easily, what I can inflict on them? I don't forget it. For instance, looking at the snow I think of the things I listed above. Icy death. Bodies preserved in snow banks until the thaw. And it baffles me that there are people alive who look at those smothering white blankets and whose initial reaction is, 'you know what would be _brilliant_? If I fell flat on my face in that and waved my arms and legs about to create an arbitrary shape on the ground.' I don't understand that.

And please, don't get me started on the breed of Captain-Morgan-swilling, Jackass-watching, chest-bumping moron who looks at fields of crystalline ice and says to himself, 'I should whip out one of the most important and, more to the point, _vulnerable_ parts of my anatomy and piss my name into that'. Just don't start me. It's not worth it.

What I mean is, big, scary, dangerous world, dangerous even before you add on somebody who's happy to use it to his advantage, and yet people just _forget_. They get so wound up in their own little problems and lives that they miss the great shark mouth closing round them. How can anybody stand to be so ignorant? They'd top themselves only they've no way of knowing what they're missing.

But all of this is in my head, because I was told to shut up. If she says anything else of the sort, tomorrow's scene is going to involve a lot more snivelling than I had factored in, probably take longer, look more pathetic for her. So I just won't provoke her.

I know, I know, I already tried that and she went on ahead. But, contrary to the popular belief (which belief owes a lot to the popular fear of realism), I am an optimist. So I'm trying again. If at first you don't succeed…

And lo and behold, but patience is a virtue and calm heads prevail. A few minutes go by, long for me and a _lot_ longer for her, and Irene breaks. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean it. It's…" And what comes next is difficult for her to admit, so I don't interrupt or stop her. "It's that feeling, of being the object. Naturally I've gotten used to that. It's necessary, considering what I do. My entire career is based on remaining perfect and unobtainable. And, of course, on inflicting pain and humiliation. But it's… _dosed_, might be the word. Carefully controlled. But I've felt grief. Grief isn't controlled, or careful. Grief is wholesale. I'm at the centre of that. It's a feeling of tremendous…"

"Guilt," I fill in, because it's clear she doesn't have the word, or maybe just doesn't want to say it, because as soon as I give it up she looks down at her hands.

"That's all," she says. "I never meant to be sharp with you."

"Do you want advice on this?" I ask. And she's completely free to refuse me. Sometimes a bit of guilt does good.

Jesus… In a church in Dublin a bell just rang for no reason and an unlit candle sprung a bright and sudden flame…

Irene shakes her head. Then says, "Yes."

"Force yourself to be ruthless. We wanted him to care. We wanted him to be cut up when you died. We wanted him to develop an obsession with unlocking your phone. He never had to do any of these things, we just put them in his way. Once you can start thinking of it all as good, as victory, it gets easier."

"That sounds like experience. Don't be offended, but I never imagined you to have that sort of trouble."

"Not that I can remember. I've watched other associates learn it. And watched yet more suffer because they couldn't make it stick."

Take that shocked bloody look off your face, please. Don't think I don't know where your minds went just now. I offered her advice and you thought I was going to be tough and heartless and tell her to wind her fecking neck in. Well, I won't lie, the thought crossed my mind. But that wouldn't have done the job, and wouldn't have been honest and I – bear with me on this one, maybe we can work it out together – I _want_ to be honest right now.

I'm an honest person. Obviously not in terms of the business, but in terms of the words that come out of my mouth, I'm an honest man. And a good m-well, no, I'm a bastard, let's not push it but… Provided you mean something, and you're not against me and you steer clear of that most heinous of sins that is _tedium_, you and me aren't going to have a problem. Fulfil all of these criteria and also prove yourself of use? I'm good to my friends.

I am. In my way, in the only way that matters, I'm a good man.

"You give yourself very good advice," Adler breezes. Waking up again, turning back into that perfect, unobtainable object that protects her so, that china doll. Then opens her mouth again, but I stop her.

"Don't finish that."

"I'm surprised you recognized it."

"Carroll was the one wrote down the words, 'We're all mad here'. I can't be bad to that." She laughs. The sound is somewhere between the holiday calm when I picked her up and that hard, derisive front she puts on. It'll have to do. In the interests of not getting caught up in anything else unpleasant, I move us on. "Wear that coat tomorrow."

Contentedly stroking the lapel, she's only curious when she asks, "Why?"

"Same shape as his. Watson'll react to it. Like ducklings; he'll follow after anything even vaguely Sherlock-shaped."

"I'm playing this with Watson?"

"Well, who did you think? I'm not sending you straight to Baker Street. I thought about it and all I could get in my head was the banquet from Macbeth. And you were the one talking about cruelty already."

"You're mixing your references."

"You're allowed to mix references. It's metaphors you don't mix. And drinks. Anyway, how is it _Watson_ that makes you go all nervy and questioning?"

"I've scarcely met him. No practice."

"He's easy. Very nearly like a normal person." Adler's head whips round. I swear, a little strand of hair falls by her face, she turns so quickly. It gets in her wide, startled eye and she remembers to put it away. She's flapping for the words to express herself. I shake my head, let her know it's okay, "Don't even start; I know."

"I mean, I've seen it on the _blog_," she gabbles, "But I always assumed that was just how careful he was being, that it was some sort of a front. He's not really so…" In a hush, like a dirty word, "_Bland_, is he?"

No. Bland's not the word. John's got hidden depths. And he's very in control of himself, so not a lot of that shows. There's a rage there, and competence, and an intelligence which, amongst the masses, would be more than enough to mark him out. He's very strong and, which I have learned to value above so much else, loyal as a bloodhound. No, certainly, he's not bland, not in human terms. But the harsh reality is, we're not living in the ordinary human world. And here, in the next circle, Doctor Watson is hideously outclassed.

We're all mad here. And even silly human madnesses, PTSD and the like, that doesn't really count.

So while I understand the potential, and that there are worse people Sherlock could have pinned his sentimental heart to, the realist in me just can't accept him, not in earnest. Irene, however, doesn't need to know all this. She'll come to her own conclusions, in her own time, and even those won't matter. To her I say, "I wouldn't lead with the word _bland_ when you meet him again, alright? Play the boyfriend angle. That always gets a rise out of him."

"Bit cheap, isn't it?"

"Then don't take it so literally. He won't."

"What do I even tell him? We don't want the phone back yet, do we?" I like that. I like 'we'. It's been a while since I was in a job where there was a 'we'. I like 'yet', because it proves she's come to terms with the extended timeframe. Maybe that was the day she was bugged; all that business about 'getting it done right'. Irene's grave-filler was always a wonderful saleswoman. Most of all, though, I like her understanding of what has to happen.

"We don't want it back yet, but that doesn't matter. If you walk in there, and you say everything in a cool, imperious voice which appears to be hiding deep pain-"

"-No pressure."

"Oh, you'll be fine. Do that, and you could stand there and tell him the word for word lyrics of your favourite Bowie song, and he'll be none the wiser. Nobody will be listening to syllable-one, because you'll be freshly risen from the dead. Speaking of mindless zombies, do you have somebody, preferably a woman, classy sort, to do the pick up?"

"Don't you?"

Oh, that's the other thing. Might not have mentioned this; Adler doesn't know who's currently six-feet beneath the stone with her name on it. She doesn't need to. We're not going into that.

"You ever try and get a classy sort to work a bank holiday? I have to pay double-time or give a day in lieu. I just thought, with your leverage-"

"Leave it to me."

"I can get you a driver, no problem, but I want her to look the P.A. type. Mycroft's always picking him up out of the blue. Make him think this is that, keep him on his toes. He'll bitch about it, but he'll go, no suspicion, and then you're a complete surprise."

She shrugs, "I suppose if he faints it really _doesn't _matter what I say."

Oh, God, I'd love him to faint. I would _love_ that. She could pick whatever city she wanted for dinner if she gets him to faint. And between surprise, and blinding rage, and the urge to punch her, and the tension between wanting to punch a woman and a lifetime of training otherwise, oh, maybe we can just overload him and he'll be out like a light. I would live off that moment for long, blissful weeks, if me and her could get John Watson to faint. In my heart, I know he won't. But so long as I keep hold of that reality, where's the harm in a little bit of hope?

"We'll talk the details out later. The sort of questions, that kind of thing. Forget it for now." She's about to say something, but her stomach growls and answers for her. "Why, Irene, of course I'll make you dinner…"

There is polite English argument to follow, but again it's put off in favour of something more immediate and instinctive; this time, a mildly bemused, "You cook?"

I live alone and I like to eat well. What choice do I have?

But, and I know I've said this a few times, but I'm waiting for you to get the point, this is all just details. She doesn't need details. See, even though it's not New Year yet, I'm not going to let thirty-odd hours make the difference. What's 'New Year' anyway? It's just another day. Why wait on tradition? If I have a resolution to make I'm just going to make it and not stand about checking my watch because it's December 30th. That would just be ridiculous.

Irene doesn't need details. And I can be honest without them. Starting clean. Pure as the driven snow. New leaf, red line under what came before, water under the bridge, I'm mixing my platitudes, but that's alright. You get the picture, don't you? Just be _ruthless_. When a thing isn't coming back, I don't know why any right-minded person would ever wait for it, do you?

"I'm afraid of Americans," she says, after a pause.

A little baffled by the vulnerability (and the xenophobia more than anything), "Don't be."

"No. My favourite Bowie song. 'I'm Afraid Of Americans'"

"Oh. Strong, solid choice."

* * *

[For RB - just until I think of something better ;)]


	14. Chapter 14

I am absolutely fine, thank you very much for asking. That's what I love about this time of year, y'know; everybody stops looking at _themselves _for a second and gets a good look at other people. I keep getting asked if I'm alright, how I'm feeling, how's things… Oh, alright, it's driving me mad, I hate it. I hate the concern and the sideways looks and the soft way they say it, like they're approaching a wounded animal that might bite out of fear. Adler knew better than to say too much, but Moran is close as a short-and-curly to getting _scalped_. Though, what with that crystal-ball look he's got going for himself I may have to use a plunger to get a grip on anything, but I can do that. The very fact that I've thought of that alternative shows that I can do that.

I wouldn't mind if there was something the matter with me, but there's not. And nobody could ever look so awful, not a psoriasis-suffering cancer patient with a vomiting bug and money worries, as to warrant being asked four times in a morning if he or she is alright. I'm grand. Actually, I've been quite proud of myself, how level I'm feeling of late. You'd be amazed what having mistrust shot clean out of your life will do for your concentration, sleep patterns, and general mental stability.

Maybe that's what's worrying him. I'm counting back to find the last time Moran saw me calm that wasn't a major storm warning. I start out counting days and then make a few more general leaps, a month or two here and there, just for the sake of speed. By the time I get back to last year, to Mr Hope the Cab Driver, I settle for 'very long time'.

I assure you, I'm grand. The only thing which has even mildly pissed me off of late is having to wash the blood off the second floor balcony. And before you get all edgy and Moran, let me explain. It was a territory dispute. McLeod murdered Tesla yesterday while I was out fetching Irene. You have to laugh, really; the sins of the owners are repeated on the cats.

There was a lot of blood. And where it was washed down and brushed off the edges, there's a rectangle on the snow below of pink splatter that looks like even more. Neighbours'll think I'm having a right Clive Barker up here. But it's _Baltic_ fecking cold out here, so I'm going back inside, stop looking at it. It's one of those things I just keep going back to. Inside the rectangle is pure, untouched snow. Not even a little bird hopping across.

Enough of that. Business to attend to.

Despite walking in to the sight of one dead cat and one pacing the balcony like a slasher-film psycho, and despite a visit yesterday evening from Sebastian I'll get on to soon enough, Irene stayed to dinner. Then stayed the night. That's the great thing about the Richmond place; it's big, so there's lots of space. And it's new, so nobody's left behind traces anywhere.

Well, it was the safest place to keep her, last place anybody would look. That one night in London, if she'd been spotted, if there'd been even a whisper of a possible sighting of a passable lookalike, that would have thrown everything into doubt and jeopardy. So far as we've been able to find out there was no public report of her death, beyond a small mention in local newspapers about the service. That can be explained away as a mistake or a typo or someone else with the same name. The saving grace is she can walk right back into her life. But it has to be after today.

I thought about bringing her back gradually like that, like a haunting. It would have taken longer, and it would have amused her more. That plan lacked the right impact, though. And she was the one talking about cruelty. I thought of Sherlock and thought of myself and I wouldn't want to be haunted. Do unto others and all that…

Anyway, she's just finishing up with all her preening and painting. It's alright, we've got time. So that I won't be too obviously waiting for her I give Moran a quick courtesy call. Start drifting back towards the French windows again, but I catch myself, and turn my back on all that.

"Mornin', boss. How do I find you?"

"Absolutely fine, same as you left me. Everything smooth?"

"Did you doubt me?"

"Not for a second. But given your reservations last night, I just thought I'd check in."

I had told him not to come over, see. Because what him and me had to discuss couldn't be discussed in front of Irene. Surprises again. I know she didn't like it last time, but needs must. But Moran somehow missed the 'don't' part and just came on over. I must say, Miss Adler was very good about it. She's coming to an understanding, I feel, of how well executed criminal activity actually works, something she was lacking before. But she was very good about giving space where space was needed.

Since the events of Christmas Eve, dear Sebastian has been a little… cool, shall we say? He's still very supportive and very easy-going about things. I appreciate that. But he just has to remind himself every so often that he's the one who committed the act and I'm not the one he shouldn't be able to look in the eye. When he remembers that, we're fine.

I've had him running the Yanks again, setting up a little extra convincer for Sherlock. Play a little bonus game on the side with the housekeeper. He didn't give me any argument. The evil Queer Eye and a lot of negativity, yes, but no outright argument.

"She's an _elderly woman_," he said, like he just couldn't believe it. "These bleeding Americans don't know the limits."

"That's your job."

"I'm just not completely comfortable."

"But who _is_ she? Seriously. On the grand scheme, who is the Widow Hudson? Nobody. Absolutely nobody. Why are we even having this conversation?"

"Well, look at it in terms of the job then – what if Sherlock can't stop them leaving with the phone? If _I_ have to stop them leaving with the phone the whole thing's blown anyway."

"He'll stop them."

"But the whole thing is extra." Then, like it was the only sensible thing he could think of, like I was the one being unreasonable, "Call it off."

"Oh, no. _Oh_, no."

"Why is this important?"

Because it's about time I stuck my nose into this personally, don't you think? And don't try and tell me that that word, that 'personal' is my mistake and downfall, that 'personal' is never a good thing, because I wrote the book on that, alright? So I know when exceptions need to be made, when 'personal' is all of a sudden the order of the fecking day, because if it gets to _me_, if it gets personal with _me_, then there's something gone badly wrong. Because I'm a bastard and people are forgetting that. My own circle are being reminded, as news of Mies's death or disappearance gets around, but the other side are forgetting that. Because we got to the pool and I was known for all that I am and all I have done, and then that was taken away from me.

Because the moody, moping bastard deserves it.

But that was last night. Today is a new day. Moran has accepted his place and his task.

"Troops are ready to move as soon as Baker Street's clear. Can't foresee any problems."

"Unless they come back on me for sending them into another Central London house that only half of them leave and the rest in an ambulance."

"Nah. Way I talked you up, they think you've got seven fanged heads and pointed tails and claws like crescent moons."

"And a poisonous wart on the end of his nose… Look, Seb, I wouldn't put you through this if it wasn't essential."

"Yes you would."

"Okay, but I'd say something to make you feel better about it and you wouldn't just completely bypass it like I never made the effort."

"Don't worry about it; it's all alright. I'll see you this evening."

It's just then that Irene comes out into the hallway, already tying that coat of hers about the waist. She was complaining how hard it is to keep an alluring shape in heavy wool. Didn't matter how many times I reiterated she could show up in sackcloth provided she was on her own two feet and unmistakeable.

"Everything's going to be fine, Moran."

There's a sound on his end of the line, little more than a breath, a sickened sort of laughter. "Yeah."

He hangs up, and as I'm putting my phone safely away, Adler looks over. "Don't I get any threadbare words of reassurance?"

"Surely you don't need them. Come on, driver's waiting. We'll get your girl on the way. She's alright? Did you check?"

"Nothing to worry about. Although I couldn't get in touch with my first choice. Heard some awful rumours about her."

"I wouldn't know, we haven't spoken."

"I never said who it was." Damn. Bloody woman… "Nothing to do with me, I hope." Well, now that you mention it…

"Nothing you could have done anything about it. Let's go, tick-tock. Death to laugh at, detective to torment. Things to do, Miss Adler, things to do."

* * *

I get her set up at the warehouse. Leave her in charge of her girl and the driver. One of those former maids, it turned out to be. The short-lived Skye, in fact, Miss Sixty-Two Hour Employment, though her opinion of Adler is no lower now than it must have been then. And my driver, a man who strives every day of his life to remain an absolute nobody, I watched him fall in love via glances in the rearview mirror.

Leaving those two with Irene rather defines leaving things under control. Nobody even asks where I'm going when I leave. That's all to the good. That works for me. I'm not sure even Moran really knows, though I as good as told him.

I'd clear Baker Street, I said.

It's easily done, y'know. All I have to do is hail a cab across town, stay ahead of Irene's girl, Watson's lift. Get there first. Then it's a matter of not being seen until I want to be. And seeing nobody is looking, and certainly not looking for little old me, that's very easily done indeed. Take a quick walk round the block, pick up a coffee at the very next door to 221B. I know, I know; that's cutting things a little bit fine. But there's a kick in it. There's a kick in it that nothing else in the world matches. A straight line between us is mere feet. He is suffering right now because of me and will be suffering twice that tonight, and soon a hundred times that, and when I'm ready for him, a thousand times, a thousand thousand.

It's very simple.

I see Watson come out. He is immediately distracted by Skye or, as his brain is probably calling her, pretty-girl-please-yes-now. Sad, lonely, rebounding bloody wanker. So easy.

Watson has just left, and Sherlock was already at the window with the crying violin. Not much of a leap, then, that he might look down when his friend doesn't flash through his vision at the expected time. And see me, just crossing the road behind them, and looking back, and watching all of this, as John gets into the car with her, with no thought in his head except that Mycroft really ought to buy him dinner anytime he wants to pump him like this.

Seven years of university and that man misses everything. Sherlock disappears from the window. Before he can make it to the street, I disappear from sight. But that doesn't mean I'm not there to see him, so scared it can only manifest as hatred, scouring for me or any trace of me and seeing only a coffee cup in a gutter.

English doesn't have the words to explain to you how I feel. I don't know that any language does. And even if those words existed, I wouldn't tell you what they were. This is for me. That look on his face, what's going on in his head, this is all for me.

The only thing that keeps my feet on the ground, keeps me from floating away altogether, is somewhere around here they must be cleaning through the drains or something, or the snow's caused a block, maybe. I don't know the details, but there's an awful smell.

* * *

"Y'know Neilson?" Moran calls, his first words upon letting himself in. It's late. Everything must have been over a long time ago. Haven't heard from Adler either, but I'd expected that.

"Who?" I call back.

He appears in the living room doorway, looking up over my head and into thoughtful middle distance. "The CIA man."

"Only by proxy, but go on."

"Holmes half-blinded him, before proceeding to tie him up and beat the living daylights out of him, before bucking him out a window to fall two, two-and-a-half storeys onto a row of bins… Did _not_ think he had it in him…"

"Don't you go falling for him and all. So no problems, then?"

"The only person you might need to worry about is in intensive care."

And he's a mean bastard or he wouldn't have done what we were asking of him. That _might_ be worth a bit of consideration. "Nah. We took the mick out of a shower of Americans, twice the same way. Whatever happens-"

"Worth it. That's what I thought."

"I did that for you, y'know. I could have gone for French fellas. Adler would have liked that better. But for you, it was Americans."

"Well, it's tradition. It's not really a job without a dead Yank." Please, please don't think this is just casual murder-talk. We're not always like this. The Dead American Clause was a complete accident. The… job, thing, event, the way I met Moran, we had six or seven of them. But they were trying to kill us, so that's all in the game. Thereafter it's become an accident so frequent it's a theme. If a thing's going to happen anyway, we might as well have a laugh about it.

Of course, that first one, the time I met him, he wasn't alone. He had a mate with him and he would never have gotten as far as me without her. Maybe I shouldn't have mentioned the Dead American Clause… "Are you still pissed off with me?" Because, if I'm honest, I'm sick of tiptoeing round this. Let's just talk, just this once, get it out of the way.

"No," he says. He thinks about it before he says it. "No. To hell with it. Behind us now, isn't it?"

"Okay, next question; do you want to stay and see the New Year in?"

"Pissed?"

"Oh, sweet child Jesus in the cradle, yes… But I'm pacing myself until-" But 'until' chooses just then to occur; there's a knocking at the door, sharp and relentless and insistent. "Never mind. Get 'em poured."

I heave myself out, forgetting until the first frigid step that the hall floor is tiled, and go back for my slippers. She's still knocking. That's fine. Let her knock. In my own sweet time, I open the door into a new flurry of snow, to Irene Adler stood shivering on the doorstep with a great hood of black fur piled up around her head, and before I can so much as greet her she stretches up her hand and slaps me, hard, her hand so cold it stings. Stings her too, by the way she shakes it out afterward.

And there are various ways that I could react to that.

The one I choose is to gesture, one open hand, past myself into the house and to say, "You coming in for drinks too?"

She seethes in the porch another second before she comes inside.


	15. Chapter 15

January 

This is all, all wrong. I'm just trying to get on with my life, after all. Clean break, remember? New Year and all that. This is all wrong. All I wanted to do was sit back for a month, take it easy, run a few low-level bits and pieces. I'm going to have a lot of prep to do, and a whole secondary identity to build. Planning another strike at Holmes (either, both, whatever happens for me, who cares, at _Holmes_) is going to be a stressful, time-consuming process. Nothing will be easy. Months of work and problem-solving. So I just want a nice, gentle January.

January gets a bad rap. All the bitching and moaning about the weather and being broke and all the Christmas presents break or turn out to be shite… But you need January. Obviously I'm a bit different, but I've seen how seriously you people take Christmas. You need January. And this year, I need it too. I've a mock suicide on (that's sort of a rehearsal, but I don't count it as work yet), I'm collapsing a house-breaking ring in the Midlands to deflect attention from a museum job that… somebody else put together a while back, that's all ready to go… But other than that? Other than that all I wanted was good food and hot baths. And yes, I'm aware that makes me sound like a bent-backed elderly gent, but I don't care.

And now it's started again. It's not possible, but that doesn't change the fact that it's happening. Here, of all places, at the Richmond place, they're following me. They're like ghosts, invisible and twice as powerful for it. And nothing gets rid of them.

The bathroom reeks of chlorine. My own _pillow_, somehow, smells of coconut oil. The kitchen is always freezing and, though I have stopped drinking for reasons which should be becoming clear to you, like people drinking malt. And nobody is here to be doing this to me. This is just happening. I know I said ghosts before, but I don't believe in ghosts but, like I said, I still put the liquor away over this. I'm being haunted by my own unfinished business, fecking right the lock is on the cabinet.

And McLeod's gone off me too. Barely even stops in except to be fed, and that's only when he can't catch himself something and haul the mauled carcass across the garden. He's gone all wrong since he killed Tesla.

No, I don't believe in ghosts, but if there was ever a time to start…

* * *

February 

Sherlock had more x-rays done. Every test known to modern science and medicine has been performed on that mobile by now, and he's gone back to x-raying like a new set will tell him anything the first didn't. I'm getting all this reported, almost daily updates. There's no real new information, but the build-up itself, the constant stream of action, that's comforting. That, I know even from this distance, is what obsession looks like.

The day he makes some progress, that'll be the day it gives me trouble.

He won't. He won't, because everything collapses if he does. I don't know what I'll do if he makes any progress. Or if he actually solves it, cracks the code right off. Or if he thinks he's got it and he's completely certain and the daft bastard destroys the phone. I don't know what I'll do. But he won't, any of those things, he won't.

Adler swung by, top of the week. No pressure, not bitching, just checking in. She's still reading the blog, an awful lot more than I am these days. Not that I've given up on it, not at all, nothing like that. I just have a lot less trouble around the house if I leave it a while between visits. Nothing stank when Irene came over. I kept getting drafts in the kitchen. She only had sheer tights under her dress and clearly wasn't feeling it. That might have been the first time I started to maybe accept the slim possibility that it could just be…

_Real to me_, isn't that how it goes?

There was a point, middle of January, where I got _incredibly_ guilty. I wouldn't have told you then, but I was. I kept saying to myself, over and over again, every second of the day, I could still smell things that shouldn't be there, and Danielle was dead. And Danielle was dead. And Danielle was dead. But I'm through that. I got through that alright. Moran got me there. Just sort of looked at me, not understanding and said, "But… that's not what you had her killed for. That was because-" Because of Irene. Because she timed her, at the pool. When Sherlock and I could only stand there with nothing else to say and wait for him to fire, Danielle counted Irene in.

I can't tell you how much better I felt when he reminded me. But I just had to be absolutely sure, understand?

So when I had Irene here I asked her, straight off, no shit, "What was your contact with Mies before you met me?"

And she, I suppose having heard Danielle was beyond retaliation, told me. With a shrug, "She… _courted_. Hung about online, said all the right things. I was looking forward to her, when she finally booked in. Something was wrong, though. A responsive subject, but her heart wasn't in it. She already knew the kind of material I had. Don't ask me how, she never told. And then, the offer. I could have pretty much anything I cared to ask for, in the end. And there was no catch, except that she would choose the moment."

"…Didn't that make you suspicious?" Look at that for restraint; when inside I was screaming and crying why couldn't she have done something, why couldn't she have walked away, why in God's name it had to be the eleventh hour like it was…

"She said it would save the life of someone she cared for very much. Don't believe the myth that anyone treating sex as a profession is without a heart."

* * *

March 

"Hello?"

"Moran, 's me."

"Alright, Jim? How's life?"

"Breakneck. What have you got coming up?"

"I'm shooting that Asian fella next week, start the ripples for the IMF job. You told me to."

"Right, scratch that, we'll farm that out to somebody else-"

"But I love Jakarta!"

"I need you here. This is too important to mess up."

"…Who, when and how, then?"

"Don't sound so sarky. It's one Johnny Refner and one Isabella Carson, soon as possible, preferably together in a tabloid-friendly, coked-up, orgiastic murder-suicide thing, but just dead."

"…Johnny and Isabella. Johnny and Isabella off CBeebies?"

"Off _Tikkabilla_, yeah."

"Jim, are you on the daytime TV again?"

"-No, I'm n-"

"-Because you know how the Jeremy Kyle thing ended, don't you?"

"This isn't that. But while we're on that, admit it, those people were annoying."

"Every one of them, but more than twelve bullets a week is a bit close to exposure, for my liking."

* * *

April 

In Moscow, a maître-d' with a very concerned look on his face comes over to ask if there's some special reason Irene and I are drinking so little vodka.

"Oh, couldn't you just kiss him?" she says, as soon as she's sure he has no English.

"Or some much more masculine equivalent. Yeah."

We found ourselves on the same continent on business, me with a British ex-pat arms dealer and her with a megalomaniac mogul who likes her to act as though she's desperate to torture him. Neither of us was having a good trip. Hence, Moscow, dinner and now vodka.

He brings over a sort of tasting menu of flavoured shots. If you can imagine being surrounded by cops, and a fairy magically appears and offers to produce a gun for you, this is that feeling. You know it's a bad idea, but… I mean, apparently it's rude to prefer the darker spirits to the national beverage, in the capital.

Irene looks over at me, raises an eyebrow. I look back, "I'm flying back to Hong Kong in the morning for a lunchtime meeting. You have to be kidding me." She doesn't answer. One thin, delicate hand reaches out, picks up the first little glass. "I'm not getting into this. I'm not being manipulated into a vodka shot contest by a disappointed dominatrix drowning her sorrows. I have eighteen containers of automatic weaponry to shift in less than twenty four hours and-"

She doesn't let me finish, but knocks it back. And I can't let her drink on her own. That's not genteel. "I don't like you anymore," I tell her, but I match her. It burns, and burns worse than the kind of raw potato water they usually serve in this country. That's when I notice the little chalk marks in front of each glass, clear my throat (couple of times) and ask, "What does that say?"

"But you understood the waiter."

"I can speak enough to manage, but these squiggles aren't letters to me."

"Well, we started with chilli."

"I'm not coming out with you anymore. Seriously. I was having a good night. I was thinking to myself, this should become a thing, these dinners-round-the-world. But I'm not coming out with you anymore. You're mean"

"Trust me? I'll tell you which one says cucumber."

* * *

May 

May is the month of the Cannes film festival. There'd been a heist planned for Cannes back last October, November. I had it delayed so that the colleague involved could assist me instead with the Adler job. The film festival was only to be a distraction; the work itself was the in-room safes of a certain five-star hotel. All of them would be opened via central controls at the front desk and a team of operatives would simply have to move room to room with cloned key cards clearing them.

That went ahead. You didn't hear about it.

Do you know why you didn't hear about it?

Because meanwhile, down on the marina, down at the festival itself, there was a _lot_ of hype going on. A film had been found. It was by Hausmann, a lesser known Swedish director. The kind of guy, his name comes up and you just know you're talking to a film student. If you're anything like me, you'll know nothing about him, because you miss the rest of that conversation behind the red mist of murder fantasy inevitably brought on by talking to a film student. This film, called _La Fin Absolue Du Monde_, had been thought lost, every copy of it destroyed one way or another. Was thought to be cursed, this film.

And glory alleluia, a print turned up, getting run to death in a one-screen picture house in a Peruvian backwater. They'd been showing it for years. The locals can recite it.

Just that one, battered, unrestored copy, those old style reels.

They were going to screen it.

They never got to screen it. That's the Cannes heist you heard about. And now, two weeks later, the whole thing has exploded again, because six collectors around the world have been caught out. Each of them has one reel of _La Fin Absolue Du Monde_, and five reels of completely blank celluloid.

Isn't that beautiful? Classic Mona Lisa scam, _and_ it's made a monkey out of six critics with more money than sense.

And that happened at Cannes. This year. Do you know what else happened? You might know this one, you'll have read it all in the gossip rags. A record number of suspected and proven celebrity flings and break-ups.

I keep hearing my own voice in my head, echoing, _Put Cannes off, meet the film festival, sleep your way through the A-list_.

But James, you cry, what on earth could you possibly be suggesting? I've got an idea, but it sounds impossible…

Yeah, doesn't it just…

* * *

June

"How's Richard?" This is how Moran greets me now. He's stopped asking how I am, how I'm getting on. Now he asks about Mr Brooke. Occasionally he asks about Dick. Those are usually short-conversation days. So I'm glad, today, he said Richard. Because whether he wants to or not, this is going to be a long conversation.

He thinks he's here because of Irene. She came back from the States the other day and claims there were people waiting at her home. I've got her in a completely fresh safe house, under lock-and-key, and she is watched closely over. But it was a bit close. It's looking like we're going to have to make a move.

He's half right. Soon enough, we'll have to talk about that.

But there's something I have to get out of the way first.

"Richard's grand. He's shooting the first episode of his own show in a couple of days."

"Well done him. Who'd he have to kill for that?"

"He's got people to do that for him. Speaking of, how's Sebastian?"

Moran sighs, shakes his head. "Itchy trigger finger, mate. I worry about him when he's kept waiting."

"Patience, you deranged man. Sit." See, he's wary now. Maybe it's because I know what's coming, but I feel like he knows. Or maybe every time since Christmas, six months of conversations and drinks and takeaways and work, he's been waiting for this. Well, then it'll be easier on him to have it over with, won't he? I don't want to do it either. I swear I'm not angry. Well, yes, I am, but not half as much as I was when it occurred to me. Now it's mostly just because they plainly ripped it off from me. Nobody's in any danger here, I swear. Nobody.

"I thought we were moving on the Adler thing."

"I know you thought that. And we are. Richard wants the shoot over him first, though, and it'll do Mycroft the power of good to sweat it out a bit. But for today, it's a different question."

Trying to smile, still trying to pretend, to protect her… Somebody had to protect her, I suppose. "What're you talking about?"

"Talking about the huntsman, and what exactly he did with the princess." And he flaps and he mouths and he tries to deny understanding, but he understands. "Moran, no shite, just answer me. Where's Danielle?"

Sternly, fast, "In Adler's grave."

"I know that's not true," I tell him. "I _know_ that's not true. Now tell me where to find her."

* * *

[Apologies for the bitsy-piecey nature of this chapter. Making six months go by meaningfully is not easy. I never realized how screwed-up the timeframes of this episode are until I tried to write parallel to it (not that I'm blaming Steven's storytelling or saying he's just being wilfully difficult or anything of that bitchy, slanderous nature…) I hope it didn't come across too disjointed or strange.]


	16. Chapter 16

Oh, you'll never guess what Danielle is doing with her days. Really. You'll never guess.

Apparently she calls it her 'charity work'. I never knew about this. That's supposed to be the point of charity, though, one hand knows not what the other does, all that shite. Once Moran had broken on the main point (i.e. her continued existence) he told me everything.

What she does, every couple of years, is she spends a month or two working for various high-class jewellers round and about London. They all know who and what she is. Matter of fact, she's ripped most of them off. Needless to say, they can't prove this. But she joins them, for a week, a fortnight at a time, as an honest-to-god member of staff. She works like anybody else, selling for the same commission, getting the same wages. Now you're thinking, hold on, that's not charity work if she's getting paid.

But those aren't the only services she offers. No, Danielle works day in and out in these places, looking around them, analysing the security. She points out all the weaknesses, the access points, and which staff member is the most likely inside-man-slash-woman. It's a deal she's had on with the diamond district since four days after her twenty-first birthday. Which is very specific, but Moran wouldn't say what happened that they remembered that date.

She's showing diamond collars on velvet pads when I tap the CCTV. No doubt, by next week, they'll have new firewalls up on this system. But for today, they're still weak.

And that's her. A mass of effortless black curls she spends hundreds of pounds and untold man-hours taming, white blouse that emphasizes every line of her body without ever seeming to touch her, steel-toned eyes that glitter like quartz. That's what makes the sale. Whether it's 'come and work for us' or 'come up and see me sometime', she switches those eyes on and it's all over.

I look for maybe fifteen seconds before I reach out and turn the monitor off. Sit back from it with open hands, up like I'm telling somebody I am unarmed and no threat.

Moran reaches too, like he's going to put a hand on my shoulder, and one of my empty hands turns into a pointing finger, not so harmless anymore; "You had _one_ job to do." He opens his mouth to start giving explanations, but I don't want to hear it. Not because I'm angry, but because I know it all already. He never could have done it. And maybe, if you look at it closely, if I examine myself as closely as I dare (with the microscope turned to the layer just above the maggot-squirming portrait-of-Gray that is my soul), if I'd honestly wanted it done I would have wanted to do it myself… Maybe. I don't know about that one…

I don't want any of his explanations. I don't even want to listen to my own.

"Where's she living?"

And if you thought working for jewellers was cheeky, just you grab hold of something solid because you have heard _nothing_ yet.

"She never moved," is what he tells me. Catches the look on my face and beats me to it, "Yeah, I thought it sounded dodgy as hell too, but she said it was the last place you'd look and… Well, you haven't."

"What if I'd gone over to… sort through her belongings or something?"

"She said you wouldn't want to." No. I didn't. I got Moran to get the cat and told him to get rid of the rest. I didn't want to go over there. I didn't like it when she was alive, Christ's sake.

Oh, wise and all-knowing supreme bitch demon queen of hell… Thank God. Thank God. I felt nothing about it until this moment. She was dead and that was all there was to know. Who could think of her any other way but dead? But now that she's alive, that's my reaction, 'Thank God', and I'm not even ashamed of that.

Won't tell _her_, but that's my reaction and I'm not ashamed.

"Why the hell am I paying for flowers on the Adler grave? Call that fecking con man florist, get that cancelled…"

It took a while, getting ready to come over here. There was no specific preparation or anything. I could have charged over there direct from the computer in that instant. But Moran pointed out that she was quite patently at 'work' just then, and while waiting to let her get home I might have very slightly lost my bottle a bit. Even on the way over, I made the cab stop so I could pick up a decent zinfandel to bring over, and very nearly told him to turn around again.

Moran wanted to drive. I think he's worried I might do her an injury for real this time. But I couldn't let him do that. I don't want him there. I don't even want him sitting in the street outside. I assured him that the lady is in no danger.

Knowing my luck this is the night _somebody_'ll catch up with her and there's me framed like a Turner.

…Oh, I'm glad she's alive. I'm glad she's alive, because nobody else should be stealing the Turner painting. That's a part that was _written_ for her, whatever her loyalties and attachments.

Last time I climbed these stairs, knocked this door, I wasn't even here. I was a bug in Adler's bag and everything fell apart. It's a strange feeling, coming back, but familiar. I remember the way straight to her door better than I remember the neighbourhood I grew up in.

The first time I knock there's nothing. I imagine her standing on the other side of the door, ducked away from the spyhole after spotting me, heart pounding. Or, more likely, arming herself. But the second time, there's a rumble inside, a body staggering. Then the sound of the spiral staircase to the bedroom on the mezzanine, a metal-on-metal sound. So I knock again and there it is, first time in almost six whole months, her voice, bitching and baying, "Yeah, yeah, gimme a fucking chance, mate!" It's an arbitrary term, but I like her calling her me 'mate'. I'm fully prepared to never hear it again, so this one time, it's nice.

The last pause, she's right at the door. Doesn't even bother with the spyhole, or the chain. There's a different sort of sound, smaller, softer. The Door Jumper, I assume. Oh, pardon me, I'm using the terms from private jokes again. Sometimes I forget. Being a lady of simple pleasures, and frequently in various states of undress, Miss Mies keeps a long, heavy jumper hung on the back of her door, in case anybody should call. I don't knock again while she's at that. I appreciate her covering up.

Without checking a thing, she flings the door open. "Yes?" Sees me and everything fades off her; "_Shit_…" And her hand dives for the drawer of the telephone table and a straight razor she keeps there. I shake my head. Not stopping her, I just don't want her to, I don't want that to be her reaction. Whatever the expression on my face tells her, she leaves it, in the end. She doesn't ask me in, but leaves the door open when she walks away from it. I think that's as much as an invitation as I'm getting. And, in a show of trust that doesn't go unnoticed, she turns her back to me to shout up to the mezzanine; "Here! Darius!"

Something skinny, with dark tousled hair, sits up out of her bed and shouts back, "_Marius_."

"Yeah, whatever, love. Get dressed and take off. We're done here."

Yeah, _that_ didn't go unnoticed either. 'Take off'. That was how I threw her out of the flat…

Marius, and you can sort of understand his pain, protests and wheedles and borderline begs, but she is unmovable. In the end he settles to calling her all the names he knows, but he's getting dressed. I'm not sure she even hears the insults, just stands there, feet square, staring him down until he deigns to go. Arms folded, beige Door Jumper hanging to mid-thigh, where it meets the tops of her boots. They have steel heels like needles; that's what I heard on the stairs. They have a jointed, armoured knee, a leather upper above which ties at the back, and more buckles than I'd care to be set counting.

No wonder it almost felt like Adler could replace her.

Marius storms out past her, a boyish creature who looks like he just barely breasts the tape for that Age-Twenty-Two rule, still scratching his crotch. He's the one who slams the door. She listens to that sound like she'd have enjoyed making it happen.

She doesn't so much as turn her eyes from where she's staring. "You here to finish me?" she says.

I tell her, "No."

"Then I'll get a corkscrew."

"It's a screw-top."

That stops her. That makes her look at me. "And here I'd thought you must have come to apologize." Look at me and realize I'm stuck staring at her legs. "They are the very kinkiest boots ever to exist. Would you like me to change?"

Neither of us is in any position to make demands. But we really do need to have a grown-up conversation. "If it's no trouble."

She nods over at the tiny kitchenette. "Get glasses." Then clatters up the staircase and starts to dress. Calls down, "So I'll just say this and get us started; you had me bumped off."

"Yeah but you're alright. Ever hear of 'no harm, no foul'?"

"Please don't play this scene for laughs. I'm not smiling." Not angry either. She says all this with calm and a sort of sadness. I've heard it before on her voice. Still don't understand it. But it's a fair enough request. There had been part of me that hoped we could just have a drink and, if not forget it, walk away from it for a while. That was never going to happen, though, in the real world. Above me, she sighs, "How did you even find out?"

"Cannes. It was too good, love, couldn't have been anybody else. And you'd told me a hundred times if once you always wanted to run a Mona Lisa. Ever since you found out what a Mona Lisa was, when you were still in uni, but you'd just robbed your first museum nonetheless."

"Sentiment won't work either, Jim." Which is frustrating, really, because I _am_ trying. I'm not good in these situations. You know, by now, how I tend to deal with traitors and people who make my life difficult. Reconciliation doesn't crop up all that often. This time I don't hear her on the stairs. She pads down in furry slippers and jeans so skinny she's torn the side seam. I see her in the corner of my eye as she comes down behind the sink, so I can turn to her with a glass of fine red as she's arriving. "If we talk about this, let's just be bloody honest with ourselves, for once, hm?"

Not angry. She should be, shouldn't she? I'm not imagining that? And shouldn't I feel stranger about being in her presence? Shouldn't there be something of the ghostly and unnerving about this? There isn't. It's like no time has passed at all. You could tell me it was Boxing Day and I'd say how good the films must have been, because Christmas really flew in.

In the name of honesty, I raise my glass, and she raises hers back. Another good sign. So what's that still going on in her head? I can't read it. Usually I know how people are thinking but this woman… Her mind is Satan's own unholy mystery.

"Well, if we're being honest," (are you ready for this? If this turns out as kamikaze as it sounds in my head we're in for a bumpy night), "what about _you_?"

"What, that I've had the sheer brass balls not to be dead? It's now known as 'Adler's Faint', by the way."

"No, I'm happy you're not dead."

"Oh, well, thanks very much…"

"Don't sound so disappointed."

"Please. We were all getting on with our lives before you figured this one out-"

"You sold me out!" I tell her. It's very sudden and louder than I meant it to be. And now that it's out, there's more that wants to follow it. We're being honest, after all, aren't we? "You took eighteen months' work away from me during… during fecking _injury_ _time_."

Faced with it, she forgets I'm not supposed to know she was involved. That, or Moran really spilled the beans that time he didn't bloody kill her. "I gave you _Adler_!" is her response. "I gave you your eighteen months' work back and _thensome_!"

"Don't. Don't do that. Don't stand there now, with me knowing what I know, and tell me _I_ ever entered the equation."

"What?" No accusation, no argument. Just 'what'. It is blank and lost, and entirely uncalculated. "I… I don't understand." And we're being honest tonight, for once.

With a shade less conviction, "Don't. Adler told me. Probably thinking it didn't make a difference, in light of your demise. She told me everything. You called me off to spare Holmes the bomb."

"She said that? Irene said that?"

"Yes."

"Tell me word for word what Irene said."

"You did it all to save the life of someone you care about."

A moment more of blankness. Then she rolls her eyes and breaks down laughing, so it doubles her over, so she presses one hand to her chest, so she rolls over to the sofa and sits down. "Fuck's sake!" she cries, when there's breath to cry with. "Fuck's sake, you _idiot_ man!" Looks up from her hands and hisses out, "Yes, Sherlock and I go back a bit. Yes, I like him. And yes, there was a time when it was more than like. But Jim, just ask yourself, if I really gave a flying fuck about him, how many times could I have killed you in your sleep?"

I'm starting, just starting to see what she's getting at, not buying it yet. "…No. No, because you said, you _said_, you would have let us all burn at the pool if you'd thought I'd still be going after him, you _said_ that. Don't ask how I heard it, but you said it."

"Because better that than have to watch you chase him all over again and maybe it's just you that ends up dead this time. You stupid bloody wanker…" But at least she's still finding it funny. Pushing the tears off from the corners of her eyes now. Smearing her thick black eyeliner. Between that and the boots, I really have to question _where_ it was she picked Marius up between work and nine p.m. She looks over, suddenly, and her voice is a little thick. It's just the lack of air, that's all, nothing to do with the tears of laughter. "Oh, and I never threw ammonia down your sinks, by the way. Seb told me all about it. It's good, and we should use it on somebody, but I never did it to you."

"Oh, I know. You were dead and it happened again so… I don't know. Memory thing or a brain tumour or something."

"Well, here's hoping."

_"Danielle_…"

She sighs, runs a hand through her hair. There's a long, long wait. The laugh fades and she swears to herself. Then gestures at the sofa. "Sit," she says. "Drink. Don't ever send my best friend to kill me again."

"I wouldn't send a _Terminator_ to try and kill you after this. I'd feel sorry for it."

The next laugh is thin, desperate. She stops me after that. "Listen, this isn't over and done with. We're stepping away from it but… I feel like I'll probably have a hard time trusting you again, right away. I know your head was in a very strange place and yes, fine, I went behind your back but… But you did have me killed, so- We might just need to give this a little time, that's all I'm saying. And don't forget you owe Sebastian an apology. You've been a bear."

"Can I have the book back? The fairy tale book?"

She gets up, fetches it from a stack on the bookshelves under the staircase, easing it from between The Illustrated Golden Bough and The Joy of Sex. Brings it back over, it holding out. But at the last moment she changes her mind and folds it in against her chest.

"Promise me," she says. "_Promise_, you'll never make me leave you for six months again, for anything." I can't promise her anything. She sighs and gives me the book back anyway.

I've never been so glad that there was something so clearly wrong with somebody's head.


	17. Chapter 17

There's three of us again. And nobody's keeping any heart-scared secrets, so things are a little bit easier. There's only two of us right now, but Dani's on her way. So is Adler, but not until later. Can't have Dani turning up and there's already three. She'll think her spot's been filled.

They killed a guitarist, by the way. The girl on the slab was a drug peddling singer-guitarist. She leeched onto Moran one night between sets when him and Dani were tearing their hair out over what might happen if she just bolted. She's got a little hole she crawls into on the Australian coast. _That_ was their original plan. Anyway, this wild, heartless guitarist interrupts, and Moran is clearly not amused. But it was Dani who ended up taking her home. And taking her measurements. Making sure she was a match.

The way I imagine that conversation going is something along the lines of, 'Oh Nora (for that was indeed the lady's name), what flawless ivory skin you have!', '…what glossy ebony hair!', '…what full rosy lips!', only this time it's the big bad wolf handing out all the compliments and Red is fucked. It probably didn't go like that, but I'm happy with the fantasy.

"She was the one collapsed her face in," Moran told me, and I don't think he understood the implications exactly. He said it calmly, distantly. He thought this was completely natural, thinking of Danielle's instinct for self-preservation. He wasn't thinking who else she was preserving by that act. "I just got the body ready. Got rid of the teeth, fingerprints, all that. We airbrushed the tattoo on. Looked too fresh to me, but Dani said you wouldn't notice." No. Not in the habit of looking too much at her vile, your-name-here approach to flesh. Haven't seen too much of those markings. "You changed the DNA record and the rest is history."

Then they both ran north to Liverpool and spent Christmas pretending to his family that they were engaged. Boxing Day ended with a carefully choreographed screaming-row-and-break-up in which she made it patently clear his family were the reason. It lightened the mood for them, just a touch.

"Your Christmas sounds like far more fun than mine," I said.

To which he replied, and I'm loath to even repeat it here; "You should come with me next year."

There are three of us again, and nobody ever wanted to hurt anyone. And I know, I understand, time will pass before things are normal again but… but this is better.

Moran is still just a little bit wary. I'm not being condescending, or I don't mean to be, but the expression his face is exactly the same as a child the first time it's heard its parents fighting. The world is ending, the sky is falling, and now everything's just okay? "In all the time I've known you you've never forgiven anybody." Just a statement. Not a question, not a challenge. He's just letting me know how the rules are in his head and that I am contravening them.

"Between dead and forgiven," I say back, "this was the better offer."

She arrives at the door with a small bamboo stick in her hand. And no, she's not taking her tips from Adler. It's the kind with a string on the end, and hanging on the end of the string like a fishing lure is a mouse-shaped piece of polystyrene covered in brightly coloured feathers. Smiling, excited, "So where's Tesla? She must be absolutely loving all the space round here. I brought her favourite toy."

"Ah… Well… Funny story, true story-"

"Oh, for heaven's sake, he owes me a cat and all…"

* * *

The three of us, together, discuss Adler's situation before the woman herself even arrives. We've got it all figured out, played right through to the finale now. _We_ know the ending. Adler's just the person who goes in to say the lines. I think I always knew that. All the waiting, and the other events, I lost sight of it. But it has always been a fact. Whatever Irene Adler is to any other player personally, that doesn't count here. Here, she is an instrument. 'Both their hearts', she promised. Night one, minute one, there it was; 'both their hearts'. Now is the time to deliver.

I sent Moran to pick her up himself. That way, if anything goes wrong, she's in the best possible hands.

"I'm just letting you know," Danielle says, "I'll be professional, but I reserve the right to get my digs in with this woman."

"I appreciate the warning and look forward to seeing how that can be done professionally. You never liked her, did you?"

"Speaking as a slag, I'm alright to call her a whore. Money's the main motivator. A little bit of vengeance-against-the-male, but mostly money. She disgusts me. That didn't work so well, that session we had. I presume you've heard about that and all… It's the dom supposed to be disgusted with the sub, not the other way round. It put her off a bit."

So she found this woman, worked with her, offered her everything, _submitted_, and there wasn't a scrap of selfish pleasure in it.

"Where are we?" she said when we were just getting started today, "What have I missed while beyond this vale of tears?"

"Fuck all," Moran bitched.

Me, with more decorum, "Just the wait-time."

"_Six months_?" she balked. "Adler'll be tearing the walls down, tooth and claw. Well _done_, boys, I'm so proud."

Outside, the car pulls up again. There's a minute of silence, Moran and Adler approaching. In the final seconds, because I have to say something to her, "I told you already, didn't I, I'm glad you're not dead?"

Smiling, trying to sound bored, "You did, love, yeah."

Irene is her beautifully tailored self when she enters. She breezes in, knowing this house now, looking like she belongs. That's not her fault. The last time she was here, she did belong, and nobody's told her otherwise. But all her confidence and belonging lasts mere seconds. She steps into the living room, to us, and sees Danielle and I occupying the same sofa. I don't think I'm supposed to know this, but there's a mild and very professional little dig going on before a word is even spoken; Dani's arm is hanging off the end, and down where she thinks I can't see she's still dancing Tesla's feather mouse about on the end of the string. A pretty trinket to make silly animals dance.

Very professional. I stand corrected on the point of professional digs.

"Alright, Reenie?" she grins. "You and me've got a bit in common. 'Rumours of our demise have been greatly exaggerated.'"

She's enjoying this far, far too much. Just this once, I'll probably let her have it. Besides, this little exchange between them affords me the opportunity to watch fear flash, hidden but very very clear, behind Adler's eyes. Everything she told me, everything she shouldn't have, here in front of me is the terror of retaliation. Usually I'm the one triggering this and I don't get to appreciate it. Quite good fun to watch, actually, and to watch it get quashed and bitten down and suffocated behind a porcelain mask.

"Danielle," she manages, eventually, voice breaking through a wall of nerves before it settles. "Where on earth have you been hiding?"

"Round and about."

"South of France?"

"Mm-hm."

Over Irene's shoulder, Moran is shaking his head at her. But this is getting less and less professional by the second. Time I stepped in. "Have a seat, Miss Adler."

She questions that too, that 'Miss Adler'. After international meals out, after running to me for help when she found them watching her, she questions that. The whole scenario leaves her deeply disquieted. First I don't care. Then I realize this can be turned to my advantage. If we put her off _us_, she'll be twice as convincing when she goes to meet _them_.

"Yes," she breathes. "Sorry. I'm… I'm stunned, frankly." By the time she sits down she's doing it with her usual composure, and just a little extra stiffness. To me, attempting a smile, "There's always a surprise with you, isn't there?"

Shrugging, "Depends who you are. Anyway, no point beating about this. We're heading into the wind-up, as far as you're concerned. I take it you're ready for it."

She'd better be. She's been bitching and moaning at me from last, what? October? And yet she hesitates. If she says no, I swear to Christ, I'm giving Moran the nod. She'll never see outside this house again. It's not even like we need her to give up the phone first, we know where that is. Not to get too close to any raw nerves, but I could send Dani in at this stage to finish it. From what I've seen of Adler's list of requests (and I was the one who polished the phrasing), we'd only have to change the names. We know she likes Baker Street. And she _loves_ facing off with Mycroft. He's never gotten as far as me, but him and her have clocked up _hours_ of chat down the years and he never gets her.

I wish I'd thought of this sooner, actually, this would have been an idea. But I didn't think of it. And anyway, Adler's got her little list of demands, and I suppose that was the deal, after all… I honour my obligations, wherever possible.

The rest of it, I tell her quickly, and as clearly as I can. If she has questions she's free to interrupt, or to hold them for later. "We're sending you direct to Baker Street. Miss Mies here'll break you in. She's recommending vulnerability, what she calls the Goldilocks approach. Like you've been hunted out of your own home and had nowhere else to go. Eat the porridge, use the shower, be found sleeping in his bed. We were also thinking to enter via the bathroom window. It keeps Hudson out of the picture and it mirrors your former exit from your place-"

"But for God's sake," Danielle cuts in, "Wear a strong perfume so he doesn't come in for you with a knife."

"Thank you, Miss Mies, very good point. That would rather spoil the mood we're shooting for. All you have to do, Miss Adler, is act like you're in danger and only just covering it up. It shouldn't be too difficult for you. And if you do it right, he'll try to protect you. Show him that code. My guess, he'll have it cracked fast as one of your whips. Then let us know. We'll tell you where to go from there, but from experience? This is where it turns into what you were expecting at the beginning. Blackmail, demand, and payment."

She bristles, like I've been sharp with her, like I've said something wrong. I haven't. I've just remembered how we relate to each other, what way we fit. Gotten things back on the professional level that's going to see us through this with freedom intact and all requirements met.

"Simple as that, all of a sudden?"

"It wouldn't have worked, before. It's only simple now because all the real work is done." Moran is still pulling faces behind her. This time it's his 'be nice' face, pleading on her behalf. He's got a point, though not the one he thinks he has. I sit forward over my knees and explain to her, "You've trusted me this far, Irene. I'm depending on you now to finish this, so all parties come out of it happy. You'll have to be cold with Sherlock. That'll be difficult, I know. But that's the job. Everything you've been given so far, I've asked nothing. I'm still asking nothing. Just finish it."

I think she understands that a little better. And when I look up at Moran he's not playing Jiminy Cricket anymore, which can only be a good sign. I have to call to even get his attention now, have to ask him twice if he can engineer to get the Hardy Boys out of Baker Street for an hour or so.

"I'm sure I can think of something."

And to Danielle, "And you can manage that bathroom window al-?"

"In my _sleep_."

"Just checking. Haven't seen you in a while. You might have gone straight." Between three of us, there's a pause, and a single, very brief moment of choked laughter. Adler's not in on the joke. That irritates her, and I'm sorry for it afterward. Trying to get away from it, I clap my hands together, start to stand, "Right! No time like the present when there's men on the streets with guns. Let's get to it."

Moran leaves first, taking his bike and not the car, off to play whatever distraction he has in mind. I don't know any details. I trust him with pieces like this. And, to demonstrate further and more admirable trust, I leave the two women alone while I'm fetching my jacket. June it may be, but London it definitely is. But I leave the door open too.

Hear Adler breathe out, affecting happiness, "You're back."

And Danielle saying, "And you're still here. It's true what they say; wonders never cease. Oh, _that_ was the other thing; try and keep your clothes on this time, would you?"

* * *

I've already told you what was going to happen. We'll skip, then, to the entry behind Baker Street, and Dani standing, looking shamelessly up, watching Adler disappear through the window. "I wish I could have had that arse my way, y'know," she sighs. Sounding almost wistful. I don't know if she's ever had to cope with this feeling before. Is there anybody else she's ever gone after who hasn't eventually been dragged to her bed?

"There's something wrong with you," I tell her. Then hook her arm for just a second, just two fingers, bringing her with me.

"Where are we going?"

"Away from here. We've a couple of hours to kill and we can't hang around behind his house now, can we? Call Moran, see if he'll meet us. After he gets rid of whatever firearm he's just let off."

I don't know what he did exactly. But ninety-nine times in every hundred it involves brute cunning, a bullet, and from the way Holmes and Watson took off out of that house he did very well.

"You know, you don't have to spend time with me just because-"

"Not even if I was taking you to find a new cat?"

"Forget I spoke."

* * *

But in spite of everything, and keeping them by me and making arrangements, I am on my own when it happens. Left Dani signing papers and arguing with Direct Line about transferring the pet insurance over, went for a walk to meet Moran. Down by the river, obviously. In our time, he's left more steel at the bottom of the Thames than a collapsing bridge would. Standing in the shadow of Big Ben, looking at the minutes go in. I'd like to do something to Big Ben, y'know. Maybe blast a smiley into his faces, all of them, multiplicitous bastard. Or make them all say different times. Or just stop him and be done with it, or make the bells go off constantly for hours and hours and hours and drive all of London mad.

But this is senseless, and all because I'm waiting, and all that thinking vanishes with the bleep from my phone.

- _747 leaving Heathrow tomorrow at 6.30 for Baltimore_.

Ah, dear Adler… You have to love her faith in me; she thinks I know what that means. Bless her black little heart.

But it's not the end of the world. I don't even need to know what it means. That would be a bonus, yes, but I'm sure it'll come to me in time. For now I know what was in the code, and the code is what Mycroft was fighting so hard to keep secret. Oh, beautiful, oh, happy day, when you don't even have to understand. What Reenie's given me is simple and instinctive as a gun.

Point and shoot. Nothing to it. Point and shoot.

- _JUMBO JET. DEAR ME MR HOLMES DEAR ME_

And the way people send things off, sealed with a loving kiss, blown into the breeze, I send that message off with the only kiss it really deserves, with how I feel, and somewhere out in the world I hope Mycroft hears it clear as day, and feels all the joy that swells up out of my heart and can only be expressed on that noise.

- _Stay with him, _I tell Irene. _Mycroft will come for him. Delete all correspondence from me. _

Then, as an afterthought, as a second message;

- _Good luck_.


	18. Chapter 18

Danielle missed the bit when we found out where Mycroft lived, remember? As soon as she found out, it was into her battle gear and away she went, like a ninja in a sports bra, with a little black pouch I wasn't allowed to know the contents of.

"I swear to God, if I have to move, because of _you_, _again_-"

"What? You'll kill me?"

She planted a camera. Hid in the hydrangeas with a netbook, she bounced a signal around the world a few times and planted a camera right in the window. Sent me the feed before she'd even left.

He's sitting at a fine, walnut table, with an empty glass at his side. Elbows on the table, leaning against his knitted, praying hands. He hasn't moved in a long time. Watching him, neither have I. Now, the camera itself is for tonight. Adler's clever; she'll refuse to talk anywhere official, anywhere she might just be bricked into a room and forgotten. We know that's going to happen and we're prepared for it. But right now, it's serving just as well at making a long, easy evening go along even easier for me.

Moran doesn't get it. He understands its importance, but he gets bored easily. He's gone to watch _Deal Or No Deal_ because it's a stupid-costume week. The trog. But I don't want him here if he's not going to appreciate this.

It's like an art film. You have to be _really_ invested to watch a man unmovingly despair for hours at a time. I am.

And, when the front door opens again, Danielle understands it too. She almost walks past me, leaving me to my reverie. But I see her and wave her in. "You're leaving breadcrumbs."

"Beg pardon?"

"Sit." I pull out the chair next to me, turn her around with her back to me, and start picking delicate pink hydrangea petals out of her hair, stuck to and scented by the coconut oil. "Thanks for this."

"Our true intent is all for your delight. Thank you for my cat. I'm picking her up on Thursday."

"Well, our true intent is for also-" There's a break, a brief pause, both of us looking round to the computer. Mycroft, for the first time in over an hour, just moved. But it's only to hang his head on one hand instead of both, so life, for now, goes on. "Any thoughts on a name yet? They're always so very creative." Cats get named after 'clusterfucks', as she calls them. Car-crashes. Things that went so irrevocably wrong that to put them from your mind and move on would be disrespectful. They must be commemorated.

Tesla, for instance, is a sly reference to the time Moran mistakenly electrocuted, not a particular showman-singer and occasional actor, but a very good tribute act.

One particular event, before I ever met Danielle, took place in Japan, and required four different mogs to fully exorcise; Kyoto (the place), Sakura (meaning 'help'), Boss (as in of local yakuza family) and Kasa (which is the word for 'umbrella' and I, like a wise man, never asked.)

I'm fully prepared to welcome Chlorine into the extended family soon enough.

"Calling her Vesper. Well, it's the martinis that get me into all this trouble, isn't it?" No. They help, certainly, and they're responsible for the more _humiliating_ life experiences she tells me about (whether I wish to hear it to not), but no, the real clusterfucks, the nights she's called to say she might actually die this time and if she does it's been a laugh and nice to know me, I tend to get her into those.

Nice try. She's calling her Vesper after Ms Lynd, from the Bond novel. The woman, the first woman, and in a way the only woman. A traitor too. It'd break your heart if you let it, and if your heart wasn't swollen big and full of love right now because of what's on screen.

We sit there a long time, except ten minutes she goes out for a smoke. She comes back smelling faintly of that and strongly of fresh perfume. And she's been thinking too, damned dangerous thing to let her do, and she looks around at me; "This can't be your plan."

"What are you talking about?"

"Not the whole plan, anyway. I mean, if you're lucky, Adler'll drop your name. But that's the extent of your involvement. This can't be all there is."

"Oh. No, of course not. 'Course not… But it's not a bad start."

"Will you _tell_ me your plan?"

"In time… Take that face off. That's your sulking face. Get rid of that."

She's afraid of something, and opens her mouth to try and articulate it. I don't want her to. I want that conversation to be far, far away, and preferably never. Lucky for me, before she can start it, Mycroft gets a phone call and gets up. Thirty seconds later, Moran gets a phone call in the next room. Dani investigates, comes back to me. "It's Neilson."

"Who?"

"The CIA fella, the one we got Holmes to beat the shit out of. Twice."

"What does he want?"

"He's been called upon. Heathrow. They're sending people to pick up Sherlock now. We're going to have an inside line on the whole parlour scene, start to finish."

Incredible. Not only do we have eyes on Mycroft's house we didn't dare put there before, but we'll have ears before it even gets to that point. I told you before, good things don't happen when you're doing wrong. Whatever we're into now, the whole story just waiting to unfold, we're alright this time. We're meant to be. I'm not going into details, I swear, but with the Greenwich job, _everything_ was against us. The bombmaker got cold feet and the little old forger wanted to come and see his work in a gallery and Harry Janus, the bastard, _agreed_ to do it and then came after me with a gun. And these are just a few of the ridiculous fucking hitches we hit on the Greenwich job.

But this (by the way, fondly known as the 'Dirty Pictures Job'), name me one thing that hasn't been on my side. Mistakes were made, of course they were, I'm not denying that, but let's face it; how many million times worse could that have been? Everything was on my side whether I knew it or not.

Moran is adjusting his earpiece when Dani and I join him. She, ever the practical mother hen, is already on the phone to the Chinese, getting a banquet in so none of us will have to move.

Because you see, we don't have to control this anymore. We could if we wanted to, but there's no need. All the work is done. Mycroft's little save-the-world plan is done, is over, bye-bye, good night and good luck. And Sherlock, however Adler plays this, is going to get the heart torn out of him. Mission accomplished. We don't have to lift a _finger_ anymore. I blow the camera feed up huge on the telly, and Moran turns up the volume while the American is receiving his orders.

Tonight?

This isn't work. This is dinner and a show.

Naturally we're a half-hour or so early for the main event, but that's alright. Give the food time to arrive, give Dani a chance to get changed. The curtains are drawn in case of snoops, but the glass shutter doors to the garden are open behind them, and a very slightly, balmy breeze is moving in the room. I am among possibly the only people I've ever trusted, and that's a pleasure I thought I'd never know again.

Do you remember there was a time in my life, I was saying all these things nobody ever gets to say, all mixed in with the mad verbal diarrhoea of proverb and received wisdom? Well, I've just figured out how I know I'm feeling better now, feeling saner now.

Because here it comes, both of them at once, something I never say and an overused blandism -

All's well with the world.

* * *

During the first half, the radio play, there is virtual silence. Except that, when Holmes explains his really rather clever plan to stop a load of civilians getting killed (mainly by using ones who are already dead), I feel Dani and Moran exchange glances, and both look at me. She's got her mouth open to speak, but doesn't want to risk it at such a delicate moment. I'll admit, for once I'm a step behind them. I'm just paying attention to the brothers' chat.

But under their scrutiny, it hits me. "Ah, shite, that's the plane we gave to the Karachi lot, isn't it?"

Moran moans, "I _told_ you six-thirty for Baltimore sounded familiar."

"Bollocks," mutters the other one.

Then Mycroft explodes, "_I'm not talking about the MOD man, Sherlock, I'm talking about you_!" New silence falls, in light of such promising talk.

I love them arguing. I love Sherlock having nothing to say, because it never occurred to him that he was even capable of the emotions that have been turned against him. But, then, of course, naturally, Adler makes her entrance and everything goes cool and business-like again. I can practically hear the clunk as Mycroft shifts gears again.

During the interval, between the plane and Mycroft's palace, Dani and I make a bet. Moran stays out of it. I've said before, and mean no harm by it, he's a simple creature. He just doesn't know these face-to-face endings as well as we do. Generally he's on a rooftop up to half a mile away. So it's just me and her. Me saying, "I'm telling you, she walks out of this with a private island and Liberace's pension."

Her saying, "For a man you're obsessed with, you have absolutely no faith in Holmes."

"Which?"

"Either. Both. But I'm telling you, Jim, give them a chance."

"Fifty quid." She laughs. "Alright then, a hundred, is that better stakes?"

"Hundred quid and lunch, restaurant of the winner's choice."

"Fine."

"_Fine_."

Act two is a silent movie, all picture and no sound. These bloody artistic types… Anyway, twenty minutes in and me and Moran are singing _Come On Irene_, Dani _knows_ I'm going to parade her as close a certain two-star Michelin whose marriage she nearly wrecked as I possibly can, and I'm trying to think of the single most frivolous way to spend that hundred. As a result (definitely not a result of dancing, of any kind, not me, no, not ever, sorry if you got that impression) we're maybe not entirely paying attention.

But Danielle clears her throat. And when I look round at her, she's sitting glued to the silent screen, with her left hand held out to me making 'gimme' signals.

Sherlock is on his feet. Reenie's in front of him, with her back to us, but the look on his face is one of hurt, supercilious disgust.

"Now, given _recent events_," Danielle says, and that is about as delicate as anybody could ever phrase it, "I know I should be careful how I react to this, but _get in_! Go on, my son, you _gorgeous_ bastard." Looks me over with sickening pleasure and groans, "I'm going to make you eat _sushi_."

"You're an awful person."

"And spend all that money on one single lipstick in a shade that doesn't even coordinate this season."

I watch Sherlock solve it. I watch the phone get passed to Mycroft. I watch everything crumble around Adler's beautiful head, and she holds herself all the straighter for it. But even here, with no sound, I can tell that she's begging, pleading clemency. Silly girl. She's in entirely the wrong place for that. She's destroyed those boys tonight. Not just by dismantling 'Bond Air', no. She made little brother betray everything that big brother stands for. And then she stamped little brother out under her heel while big brother looked on. They are, both of them, angry and humiliated, and they will not save her.

But now I have a decision to make.

"Dani, get the car, take your phone with you."

"What? Why?"

"She's alone and shattered and not ten minutes from this house. She'll lead them right here. Pick her up on the road, turn the other way. I'll speak to her as soon as you have her safe." Danielle goes to it without another question. As tasks go, I think she likes this one. That's what makes me lean out the door behind her and call, "Don't fecking tease her either."

"Wouldn't dream of it." That half-hearted reply is all but lost in the slamming of the door.

Moran looks over, cautiously, "What're you going to do about her?"

"I don't know."

I don't know because not three minutes ago him and me were singing. Because she had won. And in the final minute that was taken away from her.

But I do. Because all around me is a wreckage of lager cans, an empty wine bottle and half-full foil trays. Because the night outside is warm, the garden smells good, and in the other room another breeze has scattered hydrangea petals off the table, spilling into the hall.

I do. I know what happens next.

It's not five minutes before Danielle finds her and my phone rings. "I've got her," she says, and passes the phone over.

"What's going on?" Adler demands. "We're headed in entirely the wrong direction."

I tell her, "You're not coming back here."

"Another safe house, then."

"No." There's a pause while she comes to terms with what I'm telling her. She starts in with the 'no' and 'but' and 'please' but… It doesn't make a difference anymore. Do you understand it? I'm thinking it through now and it feels like the most sensible thing in the world, the only true course of action. Do you understand it, though? "Miss Adler, we gave you everything you could have needed. Except, of course, a random password. It was something personal, wasn't it? He couldn't have guessed it if it wasn't. No, you could have chosen anything, letters, numbers and symbols, but you didn't. I'm sorry, love, you screwed yourself on this one. Nothing to do with me."

"But you still got what you wanted." She bites off every word. She's breaking, and there in the relative privacy of the back seat it's very obvious to hear that she's in tears. "Surely that's worth something. After all this time, everything we've been through-"

"_Yeah_, that's not really how it works," I'm explaining. "You are not a part of my life. You were a client, the job is now over, case closed. So as far as you and me are concerned, there is no you and me."

Another pause. I don't know exactly what happens but in the background I hear Dani say, "Don't look at me, love. You can't keep a secret."

I tell her, "Miss Mies will take you wherever you want to go, just ask. But after that, I'm afraid this is the end of the road. If it makes any difference to you, I'm sorry this didn't work out in your favour."

"It doesn't," she spits. "Oh, and by the way, Mycroft Holmes says you may expect his _undivided_ attention any day now." And those are the last words I ever get from Irene Adler. It's a pity, and a shame.

There's a shuffle on the line and Dani's voice comes back, "Are you alright?" She means it, but I wish she hadn't said it. Adler's listening to that, and she's the one who's all wrong just now. "What does she mean about undiv-?"

"I'm fine. I told you you'd take her wherever. Come back to me then, okay?"

"Yeah."

And that's all. The end. Moran is standing in the hall behind me like a suicide watch, like I might do myself an injury, but I feel, as I said, fine. Everything's back in its right place.

What I did to Irene just now might seem unnecessarily cruel. I'm aware of that. But I have to take care of me and mine. And what me and mine are working towards is the Holmes boys. In this, we have succeeded tonight. You see, it's all to do with promises. And I never promised Irene anything after the job was done. Now, even at that, I might have found it in my heart to help her, if I had not a more pressing obligation to think on.

Burn.

Adler herself was the one that put it back in my head. That night in Barcelona, dinner, when she was lonely and Danielle was dead. She told me that one of the first words she ever learned in Spanish was to do with her trade. It is how one might express the urge to submit, something she had heard whispered up at her from a number of people on their knees during a trip to Mexico. _Rabilar_. _Quiero rabilar_.

Or, to give a more literal translation, _I want to burn_.

Moran says, after waiting as long as he can, "Where does she stand?"

"Keep track of her," I tell him. I think he likes that. That's a comforting level of humanity for Moran. So I leave off the second part, because I was going to give him the reason, and it's honestly only in case the Karachi lot come after us about their plane. That would be a distraction I can't afford. Cutting Adler loose means I have her to fall back on, should that come to pass.

It's her own fault. She was the one who convinced me to take my own advice, about detachment. About business. About staying ruthless.

* * *

[The end, boils and ghouls. As ever, it's been a pride and pleasure to serve and you've been wonderful. Also as ever, all feedback of any sort is greatly appreciated (- this is what a hint looks like). For anybody interested in what happened next during Baskerville, and all Mycroft's attention paid, there's a little story on my profile called The Locked Room which continues on nicely. But for the most part, I'm just wildly grateful you came along with me on this one. You have, as ever, both my burning hearts,

- Sal.]


	19. Chapter 19

(For HayleyC. As it was begun, so shall it end, and after all, HC wanted to know. It wouldn't have happened without you, ma chere)

The Curious Genesis Of The Wounded Martini

In every corner of the world there is a mass-market and a mass-culture. And for every market and culture there is a submarket and a subculture. In every culture there are classes, and for every class, there is an underclass.

Where the subculture and the underclass meet is often where the lower echelons of the criminal element gather. This is where you hear their seedy stories, gossip from the bleak, black corners of their brick-wall bars and neon streets. This is where you might hear tell of the Wounded Martini.

A glinting glass of stunningly clear liquid gleaming out of a shadowed booth. This, in its unashamed purity, is already an affront to these people, to these haggard faces. But then, before anyone might question it, a fine pale hand stretches out in the gloom, flicks off the stopper of a chased silver vial and empties just a dash of rich, dark human blood into the cocktail, where it bellies and turns like smoke, and never quite disperses though the liquid pinks. No, never quite. Always, at the heart of the glass, you can see it hang there, heavy, unintimidated, content as sunset.

The pale hand belongs to a woman and the woman belongs to someone darker still and far, far away from all of this. They fear her as men fear the devil; she is proof of hell. She sips vodka, gin, vermouth, and human life, and it is said that whoever she has come to see will fill her vial again before she leaves.

It is all _complete_ bollocks.

The bollocks itself isn't the point. The woman carries corn syrup in the vial when she's out and about. Take blood, from these people, to drink? She's not insane. Even hell has yet to discover a cure for AIDS. But they tell it. Most of them even believe it. The point is they spread that tale with awe and terror. And there'll be one who hears and says it can't be true and then he'll see it in his own rat-trap local and know.

But, as with all great legends, there is a seed of truth in this one. Something, after all, had to inspire this vampiric signature. This too, amongst the more cultured criminal aspect, has become a point of speculation, and often much mirth. The reader is encouraged to ignore entirely the theory which blames a succession of lovers coincidentally bearing the same names as Anne Rice heroes. The two events are unrelated, and at any rate the woman named Pandora claims to have taken her title from the bracelets. There is some truth also in the 'anaemia' explanation, but that has already been used to explain the passionate consumption of raw steaks. You can't have it both ways. We would also respectfully remind the reader to avoid such generalized insults as 'monster', 'freak' and various other terms mostly appertaining to the female anatomy.

The true story of the Wounded Martini (or, for mixology purists, the Wounded Vesper-hold-the-lemon) is altogether less pedestrian. Really, it was an accident.

The story begins with its heroes, the Devil and the Bloody Woman, at a party.

The author is aware just how many stories start this way, and begs your indulgence just a moment. This isn't one of those. For one, it was work. While the Devil courted blackmail and business downstairs, the Woman cased the upper windows under the pretence of disappearing with one of the staff. But neither of their tasks would ever come to fruition. The house they were standing in (or, in the interests of a precise report, he was standing and she was lying down in) would be rubble by the following evening. Someone had gotten to that blackmail before they did. The culprit was never discovered, and was never pursued by our heroes.

After finding themselves trapped with the rest of the guests in a burning house, with the hosts shot dead and a sizable hole blown in the rear of the property, I don't think they could be bothered.

It is, naturally, the tendency of lesser people to panic, and to herd together. They crushed each other in the doors and spilled into the night, gathering on the lawns. And yes, fire spreads quickly, but it was a very big house. Long after the bulk of the party had made their undignified exit, the Bloody Woman stumbled down the corridor fastening the belt of her dress and made it out onto the gallery. Two storeys of red velvet curtain were dissolving away in the rising flame. She stopped a second, watching, before calling out, "Jim?"

"Over here."

Blinded from staring at the fire, she turned towards the voice and stumbled over him, sat like a gnome on the top stair, and tumbled face first next to him on the landing. He heard glass breaking, dimly remembered the butler's corpse had fallen down next to him. Rubbing the shoulder she'd kicked on her way down, "Dani?"

"Yeah." She sat up, next to him, her pose the same except that her dress held her knees together. And while he mourned lost opportunities, she became aware of a spatter of sharp stings in her face. Looked down, saw the dead butler and his silver tray, and the shattered champagne flute she'd fallen into. "Have I got glass in my face?"

He looked round and told her, distantly, "Yeah. Yeah, you do."

"Okay. See while there's chaos anyway, do you want me to go up and lift the jewels?"

"But… It's just a case of lift and walk, isn't it? You won't enjoy yourself. Don't worry about it."

"Okay. What happened to the butler?"

"See that big bullet hole in the back of his head?"

She looked down again. "Fair enough." Looked down, and this time didn't just see the crystal fragments, but what was still on the tray. Intact. Perfectly preserved. The butler had fallen forward and this should have been impossible, a miracle of physics, but there it was. She picked up the cocktail glass, sniffed what was in it and came up grinning, "Look!"

"Where did that come from?"

"Butler brought it."

The Devil said, "Well done, Jeeves." By all reports (his and hers) he said it without any real enthusiasm, internally cursing the domestic's forgetting to bring a double malt along with him.

But as she sat, studying this moment of perfect serendipity, simultaneously the moment was ruined; the spots of blood on her face had gathered, and run, and dripped. And there, for the first time, the Vesper blossomed in little splashes, as though shot and joining the evening's body count. "Aw, no, love, I'm sorry," the Devil told her, maybe meaning it this time. But even as he watched she was raising the glass, looking more intently than ever into the drink. "What… what are you thinking? Oh, no, don't. No, don't drink that, there's _blood_ in it."

"And there's glass in my face and the house is on fire and we're sitting on the stairs. What else is wrong with this picture?"

"_You_, there's something wrong with _you_, in your _head_."

But her mind, it was clear, wasn't changing. She considered, and considered, considered a while longer. Then, affirming, "Fuck it, it's mine anyway," she began to sip. Tentative at first, and then with appreciation. "That's really nice. Try that. Seriously."

"Get that away from me this second."

"Are you sure, because I'm finishing it if you don't want any? Please try it. I've bled for this drink."

"You're not funny. We need to go."

"In case they find us giggling next to a body?"

"In case that fire gets all the way across the bottom of the stairs, it's halfway there. Leave your demon martini behind."

"It's not a martini," the Bloody Woman declared, "It is a Vesper. And it's not demonic, it's wounded."

This, then, is the story of the Wounded Vesper. It's nothing to do with anaemia or archaic naming, nothing to do with stabbed spies or what may or may not have happened between certain parties and a certain rather famous actress and latterday Bond Girl, and it is not a means of acquiring the life-force of others, nor stealing their knowledge or strength.

The author rather hopes we have not spoiled the mystique.

After all, it came from a pair of disappointed psychopaths, one dead butler and a burning stairwell, and the considerable intervention of fate. Whatever we might have taken away, we hope the truth will serve you just as well.


End file.
